What You Need
by Brighid45
Summary: Seventeenth story in the Treatment 'verse. You can't always get what you want . . . but discovering what you need isn't easy. This story is AU to canon after the S5 finale. OC romance, humor, drama, angst. Chapter 13 now posted. Please read & review, thanks :)
1. Chapter 1

**_(Here we are back in the Treatment 'verse :) Hope you enjoy the story ahead, and as always, thanks so much for being such insightful and intelligent readers and reviewers. I'm deeply honored and humbly grateful for your support and encouragement. _**

**_This chapter's a bit short but the next one will be longer. -B)_**

_September 2nd_

_Labor Day_

_9 a.m._

_Dear Sydney__,_

_it feels a bit odd writing to you, you having shuffled off this mortal coil and all, but a good mutual friend of ours gave me your letters to Sigmund. I hope you don't mind too much, because they in turn gave me the idea to explore my thoughts and observations this way. So here we are, the Freudian and the Jungian sitting down for a chat. While we follow differing philosophies, we still have plenty of common ground. Anyway, we're both called shrinks. That should count for something, don't you think? _

Sarah paused and looked out over the back yard. A soft breeze tugged at her curls, played with the page on which she wrote. It was a fine day, warm and sunny, with clouds chasing each other across a pale blue sky. But the trees were already beginning to show color, and the brush at the edges of the wood across the meadow was golden-brown and fading.

"The time of no reply," she said aloud, and heard Nick Drake's soft, clear voice sing the song in her mind. She put pen to paper once more.

_I'm feeling a little lost and lonely at the moment, Sydney. So I'm taking a good look at what's going on in my life, and with the people around me. It__'s an occupational hazard for our profession__, I think. We're so in the habit of analyzing everything that we come under the microscope as frequently as our patients. Not really a bad thing all told, though._

_If I were to consider my current mood, it seems to stem mainly from missing spending extra time with my children. I broke my arm earlier this summer, and my family spoiled me thoroughly by hanging out with me at every opportunity._

_I should explain-they're not really mine in the sense of bloodlines and physically giving birth. To be truthful, it would be impossible for my oldest to really be my child in more ways than one__—but al__l three boys belong to me._

_The oldest . . . you'd find him a fascinating case, Sydney. I've never met anyone with such a strong and overriding rational mind, absolutely convinced that he's composed entirely of logic and empirical observation, and yet the owner of a powerful and . . . I was going to write 'skilled', but that isn't quite the word. 'Observant', perhaps—observant intuition. Yes, that fits better. At any rate, his higher consciousness is amused at the conscious mind's insistence on being the only game in town. It's quite enlightening, watching him use both in tandem to great advantage, and pride himself on his rational approach. _

Sarah paused.

_Perhaps 'pride' is the wrong word. Greg is the least prideful person I've ever met. He can be arrogant, overbearing, sarcastic, abrasive, impatient, manipulative, and sometimes cruel, but he is not proud. His first goal is to be right, and by that he means absolute truth. You and I both know the truth is a three-edged sword: there's your truth, mine, and what is. Greg seeks that third option._

_From all this talk of his single-mindedness, you might think he's a humorless, pedantic jerk. Nothing could be further from the truth. He's equal parts off-the-charts brilliance and hyperactive eight year old. No one sees more beauty in a drop of water or a note of music. He delights in humor and small wonders__—the condensation of breath on a window-pane, the way the laws of physics move a Hot Wheels car through a descending maze of CD cases and tongue depressors, the trajectory of a baseball__, the play of words in puns and jokes. And he soaks up love like a sponge, now that he's beginning to open himself to trust. For someone who's endured many betrayals and a great deal of pain at the hands of people who supposedly cared for him, that says much about his character. _

_I still remember the first time I met him, when profound pain and fear had him trapped in loneliness and misery. He's come so far, and I'm so proud of him. You'd probably smile if I told you he's a decade older than me, but he's still my son. I know you'd understand families are not made just of blood and DNA and who birthed whom, but also of heart and spirit. Maybe mainly of those last two._

_He does have someone, Sydney__—a wonderful woman who loves and is loved by him. __They're good for each other. Their relationship hasn't been an easy one, but I don't think they mind, in the end. It keeps them both from getting bored, at any rate. _

Sarah turned the page and picked up her drink, took a sip and savored the sweet fire of fresh ginger, lime juice and honey paired with sparkling water. She moved her gaze to Greg and Roz's place, smiled a little at the sight of Roz's truck in the driveway. Her friend was taking more time off from her work as an electrician to tutor students at both the middle and high school levels, with the possibility of adding elementary students next year. It was a good change for her; her self-confidence had grown over the summer as her pupils had progressed. And she'd started making sure she came home a little early, to meet her husband for an hour or two of quality time together.

"Nice work if you can get it," Sarah said under her breath with a chuckle, and turned back to her letter.

_As for my middle child, he was something of a surprise. I wonder—how many mothers have said that of their next baby? I'd never expected Rob Chase to enter my life the way he has. When we met he was struggling, trying to bring some meaning to his existence. It hasn't been easy for him, but he's found his own strength and moved away from drowning his pain in alcohol and ending up with women who inevitably leave him the way his mother did. He's become more sure of himself, of what he wants and what he can do, and it's been a delight watching him grow. He's found someone too, a ready-made family. He and his Claire are still in the courting stage, but I think it won't be much longer before we'll be renting out the fire hall for the reception. The best part of that, Sydney, is my husband and I being offered the job of surrogate grandparents. We've already bought a playpen and toys. And neither of us has the slightest doubt that the number of grandchildren will increase, given time and opportunity._

_As for my youngest . . . _

Sarah paused. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for a moment, listening to sounds from the house behind her. Jason was awake; she'd seen him in the kitchen earlier, still in his sleep pants and tee shirt, rummaging through the fridge for a quick pre-breakfast snack. Undoubtedly he'd taken a couple of slices of cold pizza and a surreptitious Coke back to the office, to devour while working on yet another extra-credit project.

_We adopted him, Sydney__.__ I still can't believe he's really ours. Jason is the most amazing boy. He came to us by accident, quite literally, from a history of profound abuse and pain-a history he's still learning to face, acknowledge and accept. It hasn't been easy for him, but he's willing to learn and grow. His courage is immense, and it humbles me to see it._

_Of course he's also a teenager, with all the changes and challenges his age brings. Gene and I had to ground him last month for taking the truck into town alone. He's still on a learner's permit and needs an adult to ride with him, but in his mind, his need to go to work two hours earlier than scheduled outweighed our decision to the contrary. Even after we grounded him, he continued to argue his point. The day after the grounding ended, he again took the truck into town to go to work two hours early. So we sat down and talked with him about why he felt the need to repeat such an action, as he's not defiant by nature. It was one of the best two hours we've spent together as a family__—not because what we talked about came ea__sily, but because Jason trusted Gene and me enough to answer our questions honestly and without hesitation. We learned he felt it was his responsibility to do as much for his employer as he could, whether it got him into trouble or not. We worked out a compromise, but the true reward was the strengthening of trust and understanding among all of us. _

Sarah remembered her own teenage years, the struggle to move from chaos and hopelessness to find a way forward. It had given her the insight to find her own strength, but she was still glad Jason had parents to offer him another, better method of discovery.

_Sydney, I think you would like Gene. He's 'a pirate of exquisite mind', and my best friend. It's been tough watching him struggle with his wartime experiences, with the loss of his family contacts, but he's worked hard to find the patterns in his behavior, and he's even started a dream journal to recover some of his memories—a big step for someone who's spent a lot of time and energy trying to forget what happened to him during his childhood, and his time in the military. Over the summer he took excellent care of me while my arm healed, and it was made clear, if I'd ever forgotten it, that he truly is my best friend. I hope I'm his as well. Spending time in his company is a privilege. When he's not here it feels like part of me is missing somehow__._

_As for my own experience . . . it's been an interesting summer. Usually this time of year is spent in bringing in the harvest and fixing things around the house along with seeing patients, but having a broken arm put paid to much of that. It sent my attention into my practice, and working on a paper that may or may not ever get published. I think at this point it's just cheap therapy, ha ha. _

"Mom?" Jason stood in the doorway. "Do you want me to make breakfast?"

"I'll be right in," Sarah said. "What would you like?"

"Bacon and eggs. And waffles. I can get the bacon started."

"Okay, that would be great. I'll be there in a minute."

_Well Sydney, I'm being called away to get the day started, so I'll leave the rest of my own progress for another letter. Writing to you is easier than I thought it would be. I think this might just be a regular thing. Hope you don't mind hearing the latest now and then. _

_All my best, and say hello to Carl and Sigmund for me—Sarah_

She finished the letter, removed the page from the notebook and tucked the paper in the folder at the back. Slowly she got to her feet, stretched a little, rolled her shoulder—still stiff and sore, but better than wearing a heavy cast—and went into the house, yawning.

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. :)**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**(Apologies for posting this so late today, but we lost our internet for a while, which always seems to happen when we're adding a new computer to our LAN. But on the positive side, I got to write most of this chapter on my new Chromebook. Life is good and I am blessed. -B)** _

_September 8th_

It's the end of a long and boring Monday. Well, not all that long, since he's decided to cut out of work early as usual—there's nothing kicking, his team's still sorting through files and doing clinic hours, and as far as he's concerned there's no point in hanging around wasting time that could be put to better use watching porn at home, with a cold beer in his free hand.

Still, it's the kind of day that makes Greg wish he could drive with the top down. It's warm and sunny, with a blue sky overhead and a nice breeze. The initial signs of fall have arrived, noticeable in the yellowing weeds and faint signs of leaves turning—a little early this year, but if it means a long, soft, lingering autumn, he'll take it. For now the rich bounty of harvest is still in full swing. And the fire company carnival is on at the picnic grounds starting this week. He fully intends to take his wife out for funnel cakes, cotton candy and an illicit grope on the Tilt-A-Whirl.

He roars up the driveway and is pleasantly surprised to find Roz's truck pulled into the side yard. She's home early, which means she gave herself the afternoon off. She's been doing that a bit more often now, and he approves. It's cut into their household budget somewhat, but he considers the tradeoff in a happier wife and lover to be more than adequate compensation.

It's a matter of just a few minutes to park Barbarella next to the truck, hop out and walk to the back door. He can hear the music from the yard—she's got some Eighties mix on, that's more than obvious. The old house is practically jumping on its foundation. Bob Gibbs would be both appalled and delighted. With a grin Greg shoulders his backpack and heads on in.

Roz is in the kitchen, clad in her short cutoffs, the lacy black tank top he loves, and a clean white apron. She's making what appears to be pesto, with an enormous mound of chopped basil on the big cutting board next to the _mezzaluna_ she always uses for such chores. At the moment however she's busy grinding her hips and bopping in place to the hard, growling bass of the song.

_hey, here is the story_

_forget about your troubles in life_

_don't you know it's not easy?_

_when you gotta walk upon that line_

She may not be the world's greatest singer, but she dances like a wild and dirty angel, and he loves every hot, sultry move she makes. Greg slides his backpack to the floor and leans against the jamb, arms folded, enjoying the show. She rolls her body like a long, slow wave and suddenly his jeans are too tight.

_that's what you need, oh that's what_

_this is what you need, I'll give you what you need, yeah _

_don't you get sad and lonely_

_you need a change from what you do all day_

_ain't no sense in all your crying_

_just pick it up and throw it into shape, ooh yeah_

After a minute or so she turns and sees him. She doesn't flinch or show surprise, so he suspects she's known all along he was there. Instead she comes to him, shaking her slender hips in a deliberate, cocky strut that has him ready to take her without any further formalities. She gives him a look from moss-green eyes, an invitation he has no intention of refusing, and reaches out to put her hands on his shoulders. She draws him away from the door and into the kitchen, still moving to the beat.

_that's what you need, oh that's what_

_this is what you need, I'll give you what you need, yeah_

Cautiously, wary of making a fool of himself, he moves with her a little. He remembers times in years past, on the dance floor with Stacy, when his athleticism gave him a grace he probably wouldn't have had otherwise. Now, too many years of pain and lack of mobility have taken his moves.

His wife doesn't think so, though. She slips her hands down to his hips and sways with him, matching his rhythm. The next thing he knows they're dancing—actually dancing face to face, in time with the hard thumping beat.

_hey you, won't you listen?_

_this is not the end of it all_

_don't you see, there is a rhythm?_

_I'll take you where you really need to be_

It's so unexpected it startles a laugh out of him. Roz grins, her lean, dark features bright with happiness. Greg keeps his eyes on her as he loosens up a little. The right thigh is just fine, and follows his commands without hesitation; there's a residual ache he knows probably won't ever go away, but it's nothing, a mere echo of the raging agony he's endured for so long.

She feels his movement and lets go of him for a moment to raise her arms in a victory salute, fists clenched. "Yesssss," she says on a laugh. Then she takes hold of him once more and they spin in a slow spiral across the kitchen, getting close enough for him to lean in and kiss her.

_what you need, what you need_

_I'll give it all, I'll give it all, I'll take you_

_I'll take you where you want to be_

_that's right_

They move through the living room and into the bedroom, to fall in slow motion on the bed. He slips his hands under her tank top and she gasps against his lips as he cups her breasts, small and warm, his thumbs flicking her nipples. She tugs at his tee shirt and he grins down at her.

"Two seconds to peel panties," he says, and she laughs, giving him a light smack on the chest.

There are clothes strewn all over the place by the time they come together. He groans as he slides into her, feels her slender, strong thighs under his, smells the salty musk of her slick skin with just a spicy little hint of fresh basil, and starts to move slow and deep, trailing his mouth over her neck as she sighs and moans and lifts her hips—still dancing but in a more primal way, the oldest moves on earth.

Soon enough they lie spent in a delicious pool of afterglow, too exhausted to do anything except breathe. Afternoon sun illuminates the foot of the bed, warm and golden. The music from the kitchen has ended, leaving them surrounded by quiet.

"So how did your tutoring go?" Greg asks, and Roz laughs softly.

"I don't even remember."

"Good." He tucks an errant lock of her gleaming dark hair into place. A few moments later he hears a questioning little chirp, and a soft thump as Hellboy jumps up onto the bed. He walks to them with his tail held high, ears and whiskers forward—all signs of affection and greeting, Greg knows that now. Roz holds out her hand and the cat rubs his cheek against it before moving forward to claim a spot where both humans can stroke and pet him.

"There's a pussy joke in here somewhere," Greg says as he scritches the Heebster's ears. Roz rolls her eyes.

"For you maybe." She runs gentle fingers over glossy black fur and is rewarded with a rumbling purr.

"Aaaaaand, there it is."

"Horndog."

It is pleasant to lie there, doing nothing more than enjoying the company of his wife and the cat. He would never admit it to anyone, not even Sarah, but he's come to rely on these little moments in time. They offer a silent form of healing, a chance to catch his breath, slow down, relax a bit—things he never knew he needed or even wanted, but then much has changed in his life over the last few years, to say the least.

All good things come to an end eventually, however. The sunlight is slanting through the window when Roz stirs, stretches a little. She leans in to kiss him, her lips soft on his.

"How about I finish up the pesto and we go out for dinner?" she says.

"In a while." He doesn't want to leave this moment, not yet. Roz puts her hand on his shoulder, rubs gently. After a moment she rolls over a bit, takes a battered paperback off the nightstand.

"I read something the other day," she says—always a prelude to poetry or passages from books, both old favorites and new discoveries. He loves this as much as she does—listening to the words, the spark of talking back and forth, thinking out loud together.

"'_It looked like a clump of small dusty nettles_,'" she begins,

_Growing wild at the gable of the house_

_Beyond where we dumped our refuse and old bottles:_

_Unverdant ever, almost beneath notice._

_But, to be fair, it also spelled promise_

_And newness in the back yard of our life_

_As if something callow yet tenacious_

_Sauntered in green alleys and grew rife._

_The snip of scissor blades, the light of Sunday_

_Mornings when the mint was cut and loved:_

_My last things will be first things slipping from me_

_Yet let all things go free that have survived._

_Let the smells of mint go heady and defenceless_

_Like inmates liberated in that yard._

_Like the disregarded ones we turned against_

_Because we'd failed them by our disregard._

"Seamus Heaney," he says eventually, after her voice has gone quiet. "Working with basil made you think of this."

Roz smiles a little at his lame joke. "I used to feel like the mint," she says, and rests her cheek on his shoulder. The simplicity of that statement belies the enormous implication behind it, one that both delights and terrifies him.

"You were never the mint." He needs her to know that.

"Yeah, I was. Still am, inside. I don't know if that makes sense. But it's okay. Mint's a good herb. It grows where it's planted, as long as it gets a little water and sunlight." She puts her toes on his calf, massages it gently. "Where do you want to go for dinner?"

Of course they end up at her grandfather's place, which doesn't bother Greg in the least; the food's good and it's close by. Sarah is their server. She's been liberated from the cast for a month or so now, and happy to be back at work by all appearances. Now she's smiling at them, pencil and pad poised to take their order. "What'll it be tonight?"

"Who's cooking?" Greg wants to know. Sarah gives him a stern look.

"Lou was here earlier, if that makes you feel better." She taps the pad with her pencil. "Gimme your order."

"The new guy can't cook for shit."

"I don't know why you have this irrational prejudice against David," Sarah says. She narrows her eyes. "Unless you know something the rest of us mere mortals don't."

He's not about to disclose that he's done some digging online to supplement his personal observations. "I know what my taste buds tell me. He's a poser."

"His style is a little different from Lou's. That doesn't make it better or worse, it's just different."

"Yeah yeah, next you'll be telling me unicorns poop rainbows and glitter," he snaps. "He can't cook."

Sarah raises an eyebrow. "What you really mean is, he's not Lou." She leans in a bit. "Get over it. Poppi and your wife found a good man to manage the place. He's been here all of two weeks and is still settling in. Give him a chance to show you he knows what he's doing." She pins Greg with her best stare, which is fairly intimidating. "Now quit whining and order."

"We'll have pizza," Roz says before he can answer. "The usual—half veggie, half sausage, pepperoni and bacon."

"Fries and a double order of onion rings extra crispy," Greg adds in. "And a beer."

"This is a family establishment," Sarah says. There's a twinkle of amusement in her gaze now. "We do not serve alcohol. It's BYOB. If you didn't bring anything then it's soda, iced tea, lemonade or water, take your pick."

"Two iced teas please." Roz gives Sarah a warm smile, ignoring Greg's glare.

"You don't answer for me," he says after Sarah goes back to the kitchen.

"Normally no, I don't. But when you're being a jerk to someone who's trying to get you to see another point of view, I'll step in. You knew that before you married me." She sits back and folds her arms, regards him with a sardonic amusement that both annoys and delights him.

"I don't need a whole year to decide if someone's a bad cook."

"Sarah didn't say that. We've eaten here twice since David took over kitchen management. Both meals were excellent but you're just too stubborn to say so." To his surprise she leans in and kisses his cheek. "I know this is mostly about hating changes, but thank you for being so loyal to my Poppi," she says softly. He turns to look at her. Up close he sees the little gold spots in her green eyes, the faint laugh lines at the corners of her lids, the smoothness of her golden-brown skin.

"Not mint," he says, just loud enough for her to hear. "_Rosamundi_. It's a real flower. The Romans grew them. They're white with red stripes and a gold center. I remember seeing them in someone's garden in Italy, years ago. They were the most beautiful roses . . ." He falters to a stop, not knowing what more to say.

"_Amante_," Roz says, and kisses him again, this time on the lips, a soft, lingering caress. He savors it, savors the closeness of her.

When the pizza and sides come out, it isn't Sarah who brings them. It's the new kid. He isn't actually a kid—he's in his late thirties, average height, dark wavy hair and eyes, pleasant-looking, with wide shoulders and strong hands. His apron is showing the signs of an evening's work, but under the smears of sauce and oil it's clean, no set-in stains. David places the pizza, fries and rings on the table and offers them a smile. It's genuine, friendly without being too forward.

"Let me know what you think," he says. Greg snorts.

"Yeah, right."

"No, I mean it," he says. The smile is still there, but there's a quiet seriousness behind it that tells its own story. "I'd like to know what you really think of my cooking. I'm not here to take over and make this my signature restaurant. If I wanted to do that I'd buy my own place."

"So why did you take the gig?" Greg asks. He's drawn his own conclusions on that score, but hearing it from the source is always better than second-guessing.

"It's a good offer," David says simply. "Lou has a great place and he runs it right. It's popular. So it's a chance for me to show that I can keep a good thing going, and add my own touches here and there without changing things so much people get upset."

"That's what you'll settle for? Working in someone else's shadow?"

David folds his arms, much as Roz did earlier. "Well, I guess I don't see it that way, Doctor House. It's more like an apprenticeship with a master. Lou's willing to teach me everything he knows, and that's the chance of a lifetime. And there's informal _sommelier_ training too." He grins, and suddenly his face lights up. "I'm getting more out of it than Lou is, but fortunately he hasn't figured that out yet." He gestures at the food. "I really would like to know what you think."

It's delicious, of course; the pizza is exactly the right combination of crust, sauce and cheese, with plenty of meat on his side of the pie; the onion rings are just short of scorched, caramelized and crispy, and the fries are crunchy on the outside, tender on the inside. Even the iced tea is good. He eats without comment and watches Roz do the same. She doesn't stuff it in the way he does, she savors each bite. By the time he's cleared three pieces, she's still on the first one.

"Slacker," he accuses, and glances at the door when he hears Chase's voice. Sure enough, it's his fellow with Claire and her children. Greg looks back at Roz. She's seen them, and just for one fleeting moment she hesitates. Then she's up and moving toward them, to give Claire a quick hug and scoop up Josh, who wraps his arms around her neck and plants a wet sloppy kiss on her face.

The next thing he knows they're crowded next to the booth and everything is cheerful confusion, with toddlers reaching for food and drinks and Chase shouldering a diaper bag the size of a Volkswagen, and Claire saying "I hope we're not interrupting your evening, Doctor House. We can sit in another part of the restaurant if you like."

He's about to tell her and her boyfriend to get lost when Roz puts a gentle hand on his arm. He knows her well enough by now to interpret this to mean 'I'd like them to stay but it's up to you'. For a moment he's not sure what to say. He knows having the children here is not easy for her, and yet she enjoys them all the same—she even looked after them a few times over the last month or two. "Sit," he says at last, ungracious and grudging. Chase gives him an ironic look, but there's a smile there too, which is thoroughly offensive. Greg chooses to ignore it.

Now Roz has the little boy perched on her lap, feeding him a french fry (with his mother's permission, something Roz is careful to ask for first), which he consumes with enthusiasm and a textbook demonstration of a toddler's lack of fine motor skills. She manages him so easily it makes Greg's heart ache, a feeling he hates.

"Any traction on the case?" he asks Chase, who shakes his head.

"Still waiting for the last couple of tests to come in. We'll know more by midnight at the latest. Patient's doing okay." With admirable calm he fields the remnant of a french fry thrown at him. "Josh, uh uh," he says firmly, "no more fries if you throw another one." Greg can only imagine what John House would have said or done.

They stay another twenty minutes before Roz finally says "Let's get the leftovers packed up and go see the chef." She smiles at Claire and Rob. "We'll take your order back if you like."

"He's not a chef, he's a short order cook," Greg says, but Roz doesn't take the bait. As they're on the way back to the kitchen with their food he says "Nice way to get out of an awkward situation."

"It wasn't an awkward situation for me," she says quietly. He doesn't say anything more until after they've paid their compliments to the cook-well, she does, he just gives Junior a cool stare-and are on their way home.

"It _was_ awkward. I saw your face when they came in. Being around kids hurts you."

Roz looks at him. "Sometimes it's hard, yes."

"Then why-" he begins, but she goes on.

"Sometimes it hurts, but the joy is stronger than the pain. We've made a decision not to have our own children, and that's good for both of us. But I like being around other people's kids. It's a good thing, since I'm a tutor." She smiles at him. "And I get to be the crazy auntie for Claire's two. Did it ever occur to you you could be their eccentric, kinda dangerous but fabulously cool uncle?"

"Huh," he says, much taken by the thought and unwilling to admit it. "You really don't want to unleash me on those innocent little goobers."

Roz chuckles. "Rob will keep you in line. So will Claire." She leans over to whisper in his ear. "If they don't, I will."

"Promises," he says in a derisive tone, but the idea's been planted, and now he'll have to think about it.

Later that evening, while Roz is out in the barn checking on the horse, he calls Sarah. "What do you know about roses?"

"Can be tricky to grow but worth the trouble," she says. "You thinking of pulling a Sean Thornton and putting in flowers instead of cabbage?"

"Just one bush, or rambler or whatever it is."

"Do you have a variety in mind, or-"

"_Rosa gallica._" He's looked it up and also searched growing requirements, but he wants the advice of an experienced gardener too.

"Rosa mundi," Sarah says. She's silent a moment. "You could put in several bushes along that east-facing exposure. It gets plenty of sun and good air circulation. You'll have to keep an eye out for the usual suspects like black spot and powdery mildew and aphids, but I can help with that if you like."

"I need you to order them for me."

"In the spring," she says again, and now he can tell she's smiling. "Anything else, son?"

He hears Roz coming in. "Nope," he says, and hangs up. They're just barely into fall now, but spring will get here soon enough. Time to plan and get ready to give the roses what they need.

_'What You Need', INXS_

_'Mint', Seamus Heaney_

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like roses, more blooms are always better :)**  
_


	3. Chapter 3

**_(No House in this chapter, but he'll be back in the next one._**

**_Many thanks to everyone who has added this story and/or me to their Alerts/Favorites lists. As always, I'm deeply honored. It's a delight to know my scribblings are enjoyable to other people. I try to write what I like to read. Many thanks for your support, encouragement and positive reviews-all are very much welcome. -B)_**

_September 12th_

_1 p.m._

Jason opened his locker and glanced down the hall. He frowned and squinted, but Mandy was nowhere in sight. That was strange-usually she was here at her own locker, since her classes got out at the same time his did. She was quicker at getting ready to leave than he was, though; she kept her locker tidy, and she had most of her books on a Kindle anyway. She liked using ebooks as well as paper ones. "Ebooks let me take more reading with me," she'd said. He didn't really understand that statement; you could only read one book at a time, after all-but that was Mandy, the worst bookworm he'd ever met, and that included his mother. Mom had a couple of paperbacks tucked in her purse at all times. She even read in the checkout line at the supermarket.

With a final glance down the hallway Jason closed the locker, hefted his backpack and went to the front entrance where the buses waited. He didn't mind riding one now. Of course with mega-bully Ferguson long since gone, things were a lot quieter. But as he'd known would happen, there were always others attempting to take his place. Still, his boxing lessons with Dad had paid off. It had taken two showdowns and a few hard punches to the ribs, not to mention a black eye, but he'd delivered a lot worse to the other participants. Now the schoolyard bullies knew he was good in a fight, and he meant business. And he would protect anyone they tried to pick on. As a consequence, the ride home was fairly peaceful for everyone.

Slowly he walked to his bus, half-listening to the song on his playlist. He still didn't see Mandy anywhere, and he was starting to worry a bit. This wasn't like her at all. She was always on time, in fact she arrived early nearly everywhere she went, and she didn't forget anything.

"Hey Jason!" The driver gave him a friendly grin. "Whatcha listenin' to?"

"Professor Longhair," Jason said, knowing Eddie wouldn't have a clue who that was.

"Don't know 'im," Eddie said. "What's he play?"

"Blues piano."

"Cool! Send it to me!"

Jason nodded and looked for a seat. The bus was half-full, mostly with freshmen and sophomores who were on early-release schedules. Mandy was absent. He stood there for a moment, debating on whether or not to look for her, then thought to check his phone. There was a text message he'd missed earlier during PE.

_Riding home with Stuart. See you later-M_

Jason stared at the sentence, startled. Who the hell was Stuart? Mandy hadn't mentioned meeting anyone by that name-but then she'd met a lot of people since they'd started high school, so many he couldn't keep track of them. She was social by nature, he understood that; he'd always thought most writers were reclusive and loners, but she was the exception to the rule.

Slowly he took a seat and sent a reply.

_ok c u at home _

He knew she hated the abbreviations and slang most people used online, but he liked them because it meant he had to pay less attention to his spelling and grammar, and anything that got him out of dealing with the arcane rules of English was fine by him.

He stared out the window as the bus rumbled away from the school and headed down the road. Fall had arrived early this year. The trees were turning, with their outer leaves already blushed scarlet and gold. He and Mom had started cleaning up the garden too, and put in their plantings for fall crops. He was a little nervous about all the broccoli and kale going in, but there was lettuce and radishes, and carrots too. And this year they were planting garlic to overwinter, something new.

"That's what gardening is all about," Mom had said, and wiped the sweat out of her eyes. "Old favorites and new tastes. That way things don't get boring."

Jason smiled a little. He'd been reading up on companion planting and square foot gardening. When he and Mom were ready to work on their plans for next spring, he would have some suggestions for how to plant more in less space.

Soon enough he was dropped off at his house. He strode down the driveway and went around to the back. Mister Parelli, the new manager at Poppi's restaurant, had given him today and tomorrow off on the work schedule, and he didn't have to go in for anatomy tutoring until Friday. Mom would be seeing clients in her office this afternoon, and Dad was in Minneapolis on a consult, so he'd have the place to himself for a couple of hours. He keyed in his code and went into the mudroom, still thinking about Mandy. As he dumped his backpack by the kitchen door and toed off his sneakers, he tried to picture someone named Stuart in their classes. All he came up with was a blank.

_Maybe he's a junior, or even a senior. _The thought was not a welcome one. Mandy was smart, and she was beautiful too, though she didn't think she was. She'd grown in height a little over the summer and while she was still what most people would consider plump, he thought it looked good on her. He couldn't be the only one who saw how pretty she was . . .

That realization bothered him the whole time he did his chores, while he put a load of clothes in the wash and brought clean items in off the outside line. He folded sheets and pillowcases, tucked Mom's lavender sachets in the stacks of towels, and the thought never left him: Mandy was with someone named Stuart, and not with him.

He had just taken some hard salami out of the fridge to make a sandwich when his phone rang. He glanced at the ID; it was Mandy.

"Hey," she said. She sounded rushed but not unhappy. "I'm running a little late. Stuart's driving me to your place in about fifteen minutes. I'll see you then."

"Who's Stuart?" Jason demanded, but she was already gone. He ended the call, frowning, and continued making his sandwich.

He'd just finished a second sandwich and was working on an apple and some chips when he heard Mandy key in her code at the front door. "Jason, it's just me!" she called as she always did. A few moments later she came into the kitchen. "Sorry I'm late," she said, not quite looking at him.

"Who's Stuart?" Jason asked. Mandy put her backpack by the mudroom door.

"A guy in my Creative Writing class," she said. "I'm gonna make a salad."

Jason rolled his eyes. She was always eating healthy stuff. He found it disgusting, but understood why she did it. "Is he a senior?"

Mandy opened the fridge door. "A junior."

"You're a freshman." He sliced the apple with more care than usual.

"That doesn't mean we can't talk to each other." Mandy took out a container of spring greens—Mom had picked them earlier in the day. "We're just writing partners. It's not a big deal."

Jason was surprised to find it was a big deal to him. "What's he like?"

Mandy chose a bottle of olive oil from the selection by the stove. "I don't know. He's a guy."

This lack of detail was so uncharacteristic Jason turned to look at her, suspicion twining through his thoughts like the bindweed he and Mom battled in the garden. "A junior guy."

"What do you care?" She sprinkled her salad with the oil. "It's not like he and I are dating."

"Has he asked you?"

Mandy looked at him. "No one's asked me," she said flatly. "I'm going out on the back porch." She took her salad and left the kitchen; Jason wouldn't say she flounced exactly, but she put a lot of force in each step, and came just short of slamming the screen door. He watched her leave, confused by her anger. For lack of anything better to do he munched an apple slice, trying to make sense of the conversation. There were hidden currents, that much he knew, but what they meant and how to interpret them was beyond his capacity. When Mom came home, he'd ask her. For now, maybe the best policy was to pretend the last five minutes hadn't happened.

Eventually he grabbed his backpack and joined Mandy on the porch. She was working on her laptop, of course; her fingers flew over the keys. She was the fastest typist he'd ever seen, and he knew she was accurate. He always felt inadequate next to her, with his halting, hunt-and-peck style, bad spelling and grammar. Slowly he sat down and took a book from his backpack. It was pre-Calc; he was already done with his homework, but there were some extra credit units he could work on.

He'd nearly finished the first one when he felt Mandy watching him. When he lifted his gaze to hers, he was surprised to find she had tears in her eyes. "What's . . . what's wrong?" he asked with a reluctance he couldn't hide.

"Nothing." The way she said it, he knew she meant exactly the opposite. His mother had often said the same thing when she'd decided it was time to punish him for something he had or hadn't done; fear blossomed inside him at the thought that it was happening all over again.

"What did I do wrong?" He tried hard not to sound anxious. Apparently he hadn't succeeded, if the look Mandy gave him was anything to go by. She sat back and stopped typing.

"You didn't do anything," she said quietly. There was a peculiar intensity to the words . . . Jason stared at her, struggling to understand while he battled with his feelings.

"Then why . . ." He stopped as comprehension slowly filtered in. "You . . . you want me to ask you to go on a _date_?"

Mandy wiped her eyes. "Yes," she said. It came out as something of a defiant statement. Jason's fear faded. He took a breath.

"Why didn't you just say so?"

"I wanted you to ask me first." She wouldn't look at him. "Just once, I'd like someone to ask me first."

"I thought . . ." He played with his pencil, making it twirl between his fingers. "I thought you already were going out. With whoever. That Stuart guy."

"Who'd want to go out with me?" She said it so simply, as if it was an obvious fact.

"Why wouldn't they?" He couldn't hide his astonishment. Mandy's eyes widened.

"What does that mean?" she wanted to know. Jason felt his face heat up and hated the way he blushed so easily.

"You're beautiful," he said, not knowing any other way to say it. Silence descended. When he dared to look up, Mandy had tears in her eyes again, but she was smiling a little now.

"So . . . so are you gonna ask me?" she said finally.

"Ask you what?" he dared to tease her just a bit. She gave an impatient bounce.

"Stop it!"

"Okay, let's go out. On a date," he said, trying to be casual. She rolled her eyes.

"That's not asking, that's telling."

"Jesus, you're bossy," he complained.

"Don't swear." But she was still smiling. Jason sighed, though he wasn't really upset. In fact he felt . . . well, he wasn't quite sure. Excited, nervous, apprehensive . . .

"Mandy Faust, will you go out with me?"

For a moment she said nothing, and his fear returned. Maybe this was some elaborate setup on her part to get him to ask, just so she could hurt him . . . _No_, he thought. _No, she won't do that._

"Okay," she said at last. "I mean, yes, thank you, Jason." Another tear rolled down her cheek.

"Why are you crying?" he wanted to know. "Didn't I say it right?"

"You did fine." She wiped her face again. "When?"

Jason almost asked 'when what'. "Uh . . . this weekend? We could go to a movie."

Mandy's eyes shone. "That would be great. I'll ask my mom."

Later, when Mom was home and he helped her with dinner, he told her what had happened. "I don't know why she was crying," he said at the end. Mom put bowls on the counter and smiled at him.

"It's complicated," she said, and laughed when he groaned. "You'd better get used to it, sweetheart. Women generally think about this kind of thing differently than men do."

"Why didn't she just ask me?" he said, exasperated. "Why is there all this . . . _stuff_ about going on a stupid date? It's not like we haven't gone to the movies together before. Why's it different now?"

"A lot of people wiser than you and me haven't figured that one out yet, and I don't think they ever will." Mom took the bowls and a pair of spoons to the table. "You've liked Mandy for a long time, haven't you?"

Jason felt another blush coming on. "Yeah."

"So why didn't you say something to her when you first thought about it?"

He removed the pot of chili from the stove and carried it into the dining room, to place it on the big cast-iron trivet they used for hot items. "I didn't think she'd believe me."

"You were afraid she'd reject you."

Jason came back into the kitchen. "Well . . . yeah, I guess so." He went to the fridge and got out the sour cream and cheese. "You think she's liked me for a long time?"

"Yes." Mom took a ladle from the hanging rack. "And that made it harder for her to say anything."

"Yeah, I get it." He watched Mom move around the kitchen. "Was it like that for you and Dad?"

"Why don't you ask him when he calls tonight? You could use a man's perspective on things."

When Dad called later that evening, Jason did as Mom suggested. "So you finally asked Mandy out. Cool," Dad said. Jason could tell he was smiling.

"_Dad_," Jason said. He was so tired of blushing. "Mom said to ask you about what it was like when you asked her out."

"She did, did she." He chuckled. "The truth is, she didn't think much of me when we first met. I knew she was the one, knew from my first sight of her, but I also wanted to be her friend."

"Why?" Despite his misgivings, Jason couldn't help but ask.

"Because I think if you're doing things right, you're friends first. Sometimes it leads to more, sometimes it doesn't. But it's a good place to start," Dad said. "You and Mandy are friends, right?"

"Yeah," Jason said with some caution. "I don't . . . she's just . . ." He stopped, confused. Was she more than that?

"A few dates together will help you get things sorted out," Dad said. The reassurance in his words made Jason feel a little better. "So what are you planning?"

"Movie."

"Okay, that's a good idea. How about if Mom and I come with you? One of us will be driving you to the theater anyway. We can sit in another part of the audience. I haven't taken my best girl out for a while now, it would be fun." Dad hesitated. "Your mom and I both agreed that when you started going out with—someone, you would double-date or go to group activities for the first couple of years. After this weekend maybe you could find some friends in your class for you and Mandy to go out with."

"Yeah," Jason said, and felt an odd sense of relief mixed with apprehension. "Good idea. Thanks."

When he saw Mandy the next day, she agreed to the double date. "Mom told me the same thing," she said, and smiled at him, her blue eyes sparkling.

"I don't . . . I don't really have any friends. Besides you," he said.

"I've got a couple in Creative Writing—no, not Stuart," she said, rolling her eyes at Jason's frown. "I'll talk to them. Maybe we could meet after school at Poppi Lou's and you could get to know them."

Jason was silent. He wasn't too sure about this. He didn't really know how to make friends, though he did okay in his math and science classes at least.

"It'll be all right. You'll like them. You like me, don't you?" There was a teasing light in Mandy's eyes now.

"Yes, I like you," he said, pretending to be unwilling to say it, but it felt nice all the same. "I guess I can spend some time with your geek friends."

"It's a good thing I like you. You're a total science nerd. Cute, too." She laughed, and Jason felt an odd flutter in his chest. He ignored it and pinned his thoughts on getting to know people. The idea didn't thrill him. _We'll see_, he thought. _Yeah . . . we'll see_.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. _**


	4. Chapter 4

**_(Welcome to Autumn for all my readers in the Northern Hemisphere, and a happy and abundant Mabon to those who celebrate it. -B)_**

_September 20th_

_4:15 p.m._

Sarah pulled into the drive and parked Minnie Lou in her usual summertime spot by the front porch. She turned off the engine, let out a long, slow breath and passed a hand over her curls.

"Well," she said at last in the quiet. "Home again, home again, jiggety-jig." She looked at the front porch with the basil plants-a gift from Roz-in full leaf on either side of the steps, and felt a sudden sadness at the knowledge the growing season was nearly done for another year. She opened the door and climbed out, removed her briefcase and purse, stood for a moment in the soft afternoon sunshine. A mild breeze touched the leaves overhead, made them rustle and sigh. A few fluttered to the ground, their deep green edged with scarlet. Sarah watched them fall with a heavy heart. Much as she loved autumn, it was also a time of ending, of the loss of light and warmth.

After a few moments she turned away toward the house. As she passed the basil, its spicy fragrance lifted her spirits a bit. The plants would hold out for a while longer, with the radiant heat from the porch offering some protection from chilly night temperatures.

It was quiet inside the house, but Sarah knew Jason was home. His coat hung over the back of a chair, his homework spread over the table. He was in the kitchen for a snack; sometimes she suspected their young man ate his body weight in food every day, and all it did was add inches to his height, not his middle. She envied him his fast metabolism, even as she was glad they could provide the nourishment he needed. She dropped her purse and briefcase into a convenient chair, shrugged out of her blazer, and made her way to the kitchen.

Jason turned as she entered. He held a stacked plate: a sandwich piled deep with turkey, cheese and a token leaf of lettuce, an apple, banana and several cookies. The sight didn't faze Sarah. She just smiled at him and went to the stove.

"Hey sweetheart, how was your day?" She put the kettle on and selected a mug from the collection on the counter, took a teabag from the canister next to them.

"It's Friday," Jason said, and smiled a little. Sarah laughed and felt the tiredness of her afternoon lift away for a few moments.

"That it is. And it's full harvest moon too. We should do something special tonight." She took a spoon from the dish rack. "How about a bonfire?"

"Yeah," Jason said. "We could roast some marshmallows and make s'mores."

"Sounds good to me." Sarah stretched a little. "Would you do me a favor please, and get the mail? I forgot to stop on the way in."

"'kay." One moment to set the plate on the counter, and he was off. She watched him slip through the doorway, all long limbs and awkward agility.

_Growing up so fast_, she thought, and turned back to the stove. She'd just poured water over the teabag when Jason returned. He moved slowly, and there was an odd look on his face.

"You got a letter from Oklahoma," he said, and held it out to her. Sarah took it and checked the return address. Her eyes widened. Shock rippled through her.

"Damn," she whispered. "Aw _damn._"

"Mom?" Jason moved closer. Now he sounded worried. "What is it?"

"My brother," she said, and stared at the envelope. The return had Ben's name on it above an unfamiliar address . "The one who is—was in jail. He . . . it's from him."

Jason said nothing more. He left the kitchen, to return with Gene.

"Sare, it's okay," her husband said. He looked just as worried as Jason. "You don't have to open it."

Sarah turned it over. There was one word written on the back, in Ben's haphazard scrawl.

_please_

"_Fer thammag_," she said under her breath. She was not proof against that simple plea, and Ben knew it.

"Don't open it," Jason said. "Don't, Mom. He wants to hurt you."

"Sarah Jane." When she looked up at Gene, he went on. "Go into the office. Call Prof."

"But he's busy-"

"Just do it."

Five minutes later she sat in the office with the letter propped up on the computer keyboard and phone in hand. She felt ridiculous, but she also knew Gene was right-and maybe Jason too.

"Sarah?" Prof sounded harassed. "How are you, dear girl?"

"I-I'm fine. How are you?" She winced at the inanity of the question.

"Run off my feet, but I've got a minute or two. What's happened?" Gordon's tone sharpened. "Are you all right?"

"I got a letter. From Ben."

"I see," Prof said after a moment of silence. "Very well. If you would give me ten minutes to get a few things put in order here at work, I can give you a chance for a brief _precis_ now and a longer session later on, if you're agreeable. Have you opened it?"

"No, Gene . . . he asked me to call you first." Sarah sighed. "Maybe I should just throw it away."

"Tut tut. You just sit tight. I'll ring you in mere moments." And he was gone.

Jason came in first. He perched in the extra chair and watched her, his dark eyes full of concern. "What did he tell you to do?"

"Wait for him to call back. He's in the middle of getting things ready for the supper rush." Sarah stood up, unable to sit still. "I should start our supper-"

"_Mom_. It's okay, I'll make it tonight." Jason watched her pace. "We've got a bunch of leftovers. We can have cottage pie."

Sarah felt a faint surprise. "You know how to make that?"

"Duh. I made it two weeks ago, remember? Jeez, calm down. You're gonna have a stroke." The mild derision in her son's voice made her smile a little. He peered at the letter. "Why do you think he wrote to you?"

Sarah walked to the window. She looked out over their yard, the thick green grass ornamented with little clusters of fallen leaves, their colors bright as jewels. "I don't know." She hated to admit it, because the not knowing scared her.

"Has he ever written before?"

"No." She watched a leaf move in a slow, lazy spiral past the glass. "He's never been much for communication of any kind." The phone rang and she jumped. Her hands shook as she took the call.

"All right there, my dear girl?" Sarah swallowed and nodded, remembered Gordon couldn't see her.

"Yeah, I'm-I'm here."

"Excellent. Now listen to me carefully, Sarah. I request you ask Gene to sit with you. Then you'll open the letter, and if you will, please read it to me."

"I'll get Dad." Jason was gone before she could even open her mouth.

"I believe that was the estimable Jason speaking just now," Prof said. "I shall leave it up to you whether you allow him to stay, but in my humble opinion he's quite old enough to listen and perhaps even add his own thoughts. An intelligent and perceptive young man, is our Jason."

"Yes . . . agreed." Sarah gathered her thoughts as Jason returned with Gene. Her husband moved the extra office chair next to Sarah's which put him on her right, and Jason on her left.

"Very well then, when you're ready, Sarah."

She set down the receiver and put it on speaker, picked up the letter and slowly opened it. It contained a single sheet of notebook paper. She unfolded it, cleared her throat, and read.

_Sarah,_

_if you are readin this thank you. you got no reson 2 trust me after everthing that went on before so it meens alot. I wont mess aron just tell you I got cancer. Doc says liver & reel bad. he says a year but more lik 4 or 5 months I think maybe._

Sarah stopped, the breath shocked out of her for the second time that day. Gene took her hand. She returned his hold, comforted by his touch.

"Sarah, I'm so sorry." Prof's voice was gentle. "Take your time."

It required a couple of deep breaths, but eventually she continued.

_this will sond dum but after he told me I got thinkin abt you & everthing that happin at our plase when we was kids & when Gramma took you. knowin your goina die makes things mor cler. I ben mean lik daddy uset to be wen all you was was good 2 me. you dint desserve none of it. you tried 2 help & ther was nothin you cold do. Sare I'm sorry. that don't mean nothin I know but its all I got 2 give. dont come out her 2 see me. just when Matt tels you Im gone, sing for me. I alwas loved herin you. have a wake lik we done for uncle Joe & see me into the dirt the old way. pore som whisky out for me to so Gramma wil be mad! haha!_

_I hope you are hapy with yr man & have a good live. you are a good persin Sare never let anyon tel you diffrent. if you want 2 writ back ok. if not I unerstan. the hospes doc says ok for you 2 cal but I dont ask you for that writ is enuf if you want 2 do that._

_Ben_

Sarah held the paper. In the knotted scrawl she saw her brother's painful struggle to put the words on paper-words difficult not only to write, but to compose.

Prof broke the silence first. "My beautiful girl, you'll forgive me for truthful speaking," he said, his tone mild, "but it seems within this terrible tragedy, you've just been given a great gift."

"A _gift_?" Jason sat up a bit. His dark eyes held anger, and confusion. "What do you mean?"

"He means my brother wants to talk to me for the first time since we were kids," Sarah said, and put the letter on the desk. She rested her hand on Jason's back and gave Gene's hand a squeeze. "It is a gift."

"Bought at a terrible price, but the most precious things often cost all," Prof said. "I won't ask what you'll do because you need time to think about it, but I will request you not make any hasty decisions, dear girl."

"I won't." The words surprised her, but she meant them all the same. "Don't worry. I'm not goin' anywhere."

"Well done, Sarah Jane." Gordon's voice held warm approval. "Very well done. Must dash, but shall you call me later on? I have the distinct feeling you'll be burning the midnight oil."

"Late is fine." Sarah rubbed Jason's shoulder. "We'll be celebrating the harvest tonight. I wish you could be here with us."

"As do I, my darling girl. Truth to tell, the only way I'll be celebrating is by cooking up the copious bounty we have here in the kitchen, but I'll be with you in spirit at least. Ta for now, love."

The office was quiet after the call ended. Jason moved closer and rested his head against Sarah's shoulder. "You really aren't going to Oklahoma?" he asked.

"No, sweetheart." It was the truth; she knew it was the right decision. "Ben and I have a lot to talk about, but we can do it on the phone. There's no need to meet face-to-face now, he said so himself. Besides," she slipped her arm around her boy and gave him a hug, "my family needs me right here." She smiled just a little when Gene brushed a kiss over her cheek.

They ended up in the back yard as planned, with scraps of wood and sticks stacked in the fire pit ready to burn. "Let's get this party started," Gene said. "I'd be happy with dogs, beer and potato chips tonight."

"And s'mores." Jason dumped another load of sticks by the pit. As he straightened he shaded his eyes against the setting sun. "House and Roz are coming over," he said. Sarah turned to look. Sure enough, the Houses were on their way. They both carried food containers. Hellboy followed behind them, tail held high.

"Well, how about that," Gene said, all innocence. Sarah swung her gaze to his, suspicious of his comment. He gave her a sweet smile. "We aren't the only ones who like a big fat harvest moon for spoonin'."

"What's spoonin'?" Jason wanted to know. Sarah laughed a little and shook her head.

"You get to tell him," she informed Gene, and went to meet her oldest boy and his wife. Greg paused as she came to them.

"Can't you ever just lead a boring little life?" he said, but the concern in his vivid eyes belied his harsh tone. Roz handed her containers to Greg, came forward and enveloped Sarah in a gentle hug. When she stepped back she smiled, but her gaze held worry and affection in equal amounts, just as Greg's did.

"Gene said you needed a little spoiling tonight. He didn't say what happened, just that you had some upsetting news. So we thought we'd bring over dinner and spend some time with you, if that's okay."

"It's more than okay." Sarah felt her sadness slip away. It wouldn't be gone for long, but a reprieve, however short, was welcome. "We're building a bonfire since it's a full harvest moon tonight."

"Perfect. We brought some Italian sausages and stuff to make kabobs," Roz said. "We heard a rumor you're doing s'mores, so there's bananas and ice cream to make splits."

"There better be copious amounts of alcohol too," Greg said, and went into the back room. Sarah gave Roz a pat and followed him into the house. As she entered the kitchen he gave her a quick glance.

"So what the hell's going on?" He dumped the containers on the counter, made his way to the fridge and extracted a beer. "Gunney said you got a letter from Okie."

"My brother Ben has liver cancer," Sarah said. Greg popped the top off the bottle and took a long swallow. He watched her, his gaze keen and searching.

"You're headed out tomorrow then."

She shook her head. "Nope."

Greg's eyes widened. "Nope?"

"Nope." Sarah leaned against the counter. "He doesn't want a face-to-face meeting and neither do I. Too much . . ." She tried to find the words. "Too much," she said finally. "Distance is better for both of us."

Greg said nothing right away. At last he gave a single nod. "Good for you."

"Yeah. Thanks. At least he . . . he told me." Sarah glanced out the window as music began to play on the back porch. She smiled as she recognized the tune.

"I think your main squeeze wants some quality time." Greg raised one brow in a mock leer. Sarah nodded and slipped out of the kitchen, to find her husband in the shadows.

_come a little bit closer_

_hear what I have to say _

_just like children sleepin__'_

_we could dream this night away_

Just beyond his shoulder the moon began its slow climb into the darkening sky, yellow as butter above the new bonfire.

_but there's a full moon risin'_

_let's go dancin' in the light_

_we know where the music's playin'_

_let's go out and feel the night_

Sarah moved into his arms and accepted his kiss, returned it as they stood together in the soft light. After a few moments they began to move together slowly as the music flowed around them, sweet and full.

_because I'm still in love with you_

_I want to see you dance again_

_because I'm still in love with you_

_on this harvest moon_

Sarah rested her head on Gene's shoulder and closed her eyes. Sorrow retreated further into the shadows as strong, lean arms held her with tenderness. He sang with the verse, his soft voice true and clear.

_when we were strangers_

_I watched you from afar_

_when we were lovers_

_I loved you with all my heart_

She listened, her own heart open, glad of the velvet night and the man who loved her in spite of everything she'd done to push him away.

_but now it's gettin' late_

_and the moon is climbin' high_

_I want to celebrate_

_see it shinin' in your eye_

She joined him on the last chorus, singing harmony to the melody.

_because I'm still in love with you_

_I want to see you dance again_

_because I'm still in love with you_

_on this harvest moon_

"Meet me upstairs later tonight?" Gene said as the song ended. Sarah laughed softly.

"It's a date." She kissed him, a lingering salute they both enjoyed until a loud stage cough broke their reverie.

"You're giving your kid ideas. Get a room," Greg said, and strode by them with a platter of sausages and vegetables, a lopsided smirk plastered on his face. Just beyond him Sarah caught a glimpse of Jason, who stood on the other side of the fire with a bundle of sticks tucked under his arm. It was clear he'd watched them dance. The expression on his face made her heart break: happiness, bewilderment, and a longing so intense it was almost a living thing. She doubted he was aware of it, not yet anyway. But someday soon . . . She made a quick wish, something like a mother's prayer probably, though she'd never had any experience with them.

_Let his first love be kind, and able to accept him for who he is. _Even as she thought it, the words of another song came to her.

"_You can add up the parts/but you won't have the sum_," she said softly to the wavering light,

_you can strike up the march, _

_there is no drum _

_every heart, every heart _

_to love will come _

_but like a refugee _

_ring the bells that still can ring _

_forget your perfect offering _

_there is a crack, a crack in everything-_

"_That's how the light gets in_," Gene said, and smiled down at her. He glanced at Jason, then back at her. His gaze held comprehension and love in equal measure. "I want what we have for our boy too."

Sarah slipped her arm around Gene's waist. "Here's to future harvests," she said, and walked with him to the fire, where the rest of her family waited.

_fer thammag-bastard_

'_Harvest Moon', Neil Young_

'_Anthem,' Leonard Cohen_

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome.** _


	5. Chapter 5

_**(Just to err on the side of caution, I'm putting a trigger warning here for any veterans or active duty military personnel who might possibly be reading this story. I am not a vet myself, but have taken memories told to me by veterans of various wars and 'police actions', modified them a bit to preserve anonymity, and given them to Gene. While not terribly graphic, they could cause flashbacks. Also, there's a lot of strong language in this chapter. -B)**_

_September 24th_

_7:20 p.m._

"So, where were we?" Gene tried to find some enthusiasm for the task ahead, but none was forthcoming.

"You were about to tell me why you didn't take a firearm with you when you went in rescue of your family." Gordon's words were gentle but his tone was unbending.

Gene sat back in his chair. "Yeah, I was." He wanted to do anything but that, of course.

"Perhaps you might ease into things if you gave me a bit of background first."

"You mean, the reason why I didn't take the gun." Gene sighed and passed a hand over his face. He wasn't surprised to find sweat on his fingers.

"Yes, that would do nicely," Gordon said without any irony. "Take your time, my boy."

"Okay." Gene stared out the window at the yard and the meadow beyond. Such a peaceful scene . . . "When I was on the second tour in Somalia, we had to carry all the time. It wasn't safe to be without some way to defend yourself, and since the rebels were armed as well as we were, maybe better at times, we just made it a rule to keep a firearm handy." He paused, reluctant to continue.

"So you had a gun with you constantly. That had to be difficult," Gordon said quietly.

"You got used to it. Humans can get used to almost any damn thing if you give them enough time and incentive. We had plenty of both." Gene swallowed on a dry throat. "Anyway, we always had kids around, looking for handouts. Some of them were old enough to bum smokes although we weren't supposed to give them any. But children see a lot of things adults don't. We . . . we didn't use them as informants exactly, but if something was goin' on or there was trouble coming, they'd usually tell us if we gave 'em a big enough bribe. A couple of the guys complained about it but most of us didn't mind giving them food." Gene half-smiled. "Sometimes we'd stay long enough to make friends just a little." The smile faded. "It was a mistake to do that. The rebels used the kids to get to us. They'd . . . they'd find all kinds of methods to coerce them or make them think we were the bad guys. There are days when I'm convinced we were, and didn't know it."

"I've never served in the military," Gordon said after a brief silence, "but I've worked with other people who have done so, and that feeling of doubt is far more common than you'd think."

"Doesn't surprise me," Gene said. He shifted a little. "So . . . so the upshot of all this was a lot of confusion. We didn't trust the kids fully but we depended on them for information. The kids saw us as a source of good things but they watched us wipe out their families and their tribes in firefights with the rebels. It was a mess, and some bad things happened because of it." He swallowed.

"And one of those bad things happened to you," Gordon said softly.

"I . . . I killed a child." It was out, at long last. He couldn't believe he'd actually told someone else who hadn't been there; somewhere in the back of his head he'd decided never . . . but never is a long time. "He was a little younger than Jason was, eleven maybe. It was always hard to figure out their real ages because they were all so small from not getting enough to eat . . ." His hands shook. "I'm gonna put the phone on speaker if that's okay."

"My dear boy, do whatever you wish to make things more comfortable for yourself." Gordon spoke gently. "When you're ready, please tell me what happened."

It took Gene a minute or two to gather his courage. "We were out on patrol. Six of us, checking out the path behind some little village that was a hot spot for fighting because it had a reliable source of water. Some kids came up like they always did. We tried to get them to leave but they stuck to us, and that made me nervous because most of the time they didn't do it unless they were marking us for someone." His voice cracked. He took a swallow of beer, grateful for the clean bitter taste. "We . . . we had to check the huts, fuck knows we didn't want to do it but we had to. So my buddy and I went into the first one, scared shitless it was booby-trapped or someone was waiting inside to blow our damn heads off. We'd . . . we'd just gone in when-when one of the kids-he-he just burst through the door and he was yelling-and I-" He swallowed and felt his stomach clench. "I shot him. It was pure reflex, didn't even think about it. Just shot him right in the head." For a moment he was there once more, watching the lifeless body fall to the dry ground. His gut tightened at the memory of dark blood as it soaked into the thirsty earth, hordes of flies already collecting.

"What happened after that?" Gordon asked after a time.

"I don't know. Don't . . . don't remember. I shot the kid, and then we were back at the base and our squad leader was asking questions about what happened. So I told him, and my buddy told him, and the rest of the patrol. He made his report, and that was it."

"But it wasn't all, was it? There's more to it."

"Yeah." Gene took another long swallow of beer. "A few days later, one of the local boys came to me. It was a huge act of courage on his part. He didn't know if we'd decided to kill kids as a matter of course or if I'd take out anyone who saw what happened . . . Anyway, he told me in the worst broken English I've ever heard that he tried to warn his friend not to go into the hut because he'd get shot." Gene watched wind ripple over the dying meadow grasses. "He wanted to make me understand he knew why it happened, and-and he didn't blame me. After he left I felt ten times worse."

"I think I know why, but please tell me in your own words," Gordon said quietly.

"Because even the damn kids expected us to kill them, on purpose or by accident, it didn't matter. They expected it. It was normal. _Normal_." His voice rose despite his efforts to keep it level. "They all saw us as killing machines. Yeah, sometimes we handed out candy and water and gum and cigarettes, and traded jokes or showed them magic tricks and tried to be friendly, but we also handed out death by the fucking bushel. And the hell of it was, they weren't wrong to see us that way." He wiped tears from his eyes with shaking fingers, ashamed of his weakness. "I didn't want to be a goddamn killing machine. I didn't want to shoot young boys in the head or watch my buddies get shot or have their bodies blown apart. I didn't want to wonder if I'd ever feel anything ever again in my entire life, if I'd be numb forever."

A long silence fell, broken only by the faint sound of the wind as it sighed through the meadow grasses beyond the window. "Now tie it to the recent past, my boy," Gordon said at last. "Tell me how this affected your behavior when Jason's biological father took his child and your wife."

"You mean, tell you how I was a coward." Gene couldn't keep the bitterness out of his words.

"You are the one who knows if it was truly cowardice or something else," Gordon said simply. "I make no such presuppositions. Make the link between the two moments."

"Dammit, I don't _want_ to!"

"Yes, I know. But you'll do it anyway for me, won't you? It's of vital importance as you understand quite well, otherwise I wouldn't ask."

Gene sighed. "_Fuck_. Yeah, all right." He finished off the beer and set the empty bottle on the desk. "The plain truth is, I was afraid . . ." He stopped. "No, actually I was terrified that if I took a gun, even a handgun, with me to that cabin, I'd-I'd hurt my boy, or Sarah. Stupid, fucking _stupid_. Irrational. Emotional decision, the kind that gets you killed. But I kept thinking about what happened on that goddamn patrol and how-how quick it was, how I just shot that kid without even thinking about it . . ."

"You were afraid your reflexes would get the better of you and make a terrible situation infinitely worse." Gordon exhaled slowly. "I don't consider that cowardice, my boy. Given the circumstances and your particular mindset at the time, it's actually a fairly wise course of non-action."

"But it meant I couldn't protect them!" Gene got out of the chair and began to pace. "Both Sarah and Jason got shot because I couldn't take that bastard out the moment I set eyes on him, dammit!"

"You did the best you could at the time-"

"It wasn't good enough! I nearly got my family killed!"

"And yet they're here with you now, not six feet under," Gordon said, unperturbed by Gene's raised voice. "Perhaps you could have done things in a way that might have prevented the kidnapper from harming anyone, but you can mull over variables and possibilities till the proverbial cows come home and never find a workable solution."

Gene thought about that. "So what are you saying exactly?"

"Well, it's quite obvious, isn't it? The course of action you chose has consequences, both good and bad. You'll have to live with the memory of them."

"I don't know if I can," Gene said. He swallowed down his misery and impotent fury at the knowledge. "It keeps me awake at night, sometimes."

"And what does your estimable wife say when she finds you watching the clock at some small hour of the morning?" Gordon wanted to know. "Does she castigate you for not choosing a perfect scenario where everyone but the villain comes out whole and healthy, and you all arrive home in a blaze of glory? Or does she tell you she loves you because you came to your family's rescue and brought them out of harm?"

"You've got inside information."

"I shan't say yea or nay to that. Confidentiality et cetera ad infinitum, as you well know. But the question still stands: does Sarah curse you for what you did, or does she thank you?"

"She . . . she thanks me," Gene said with some reluctance.

"And there you have your answer, Eugene. Every choice has a shadow side, with unintended results. Decisions are not as simple as we like to believe. While some answers are easy or plain, many others are more obscure and leave us wondering if we're as good as we think we are."

"Well maybe that's the problem." Gene sat down and wished he had another beer at hand. "I'm not good."

"Ah." Gordon didn't sound surprised. "I've been wondering when we'd get to this topic."

"If we're gonna dive into the depths I need another brew," Gene said. "Five minute break?"

"An excellent suggestion. I could use a second cuppa."

The kitchen was quiet; Jason was at Lou's for another hour, and Sarah was spending time with Roz at the House's, to give him some privacy. Gene took a beer from the fridge, popped the top and downed a quick slug. He was surprised to find his hands still shook. He ran the cold bottle over his forehead; the mild shock made him feel the beat of his heart, the breath rattling in his chest. Condensation ran down his cheek, a fat cold drop. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, and returned to the office.

"I'm back," he said, and took the chair.

"Very good. Settled in then. Now let's tackle the beast lurking in murky waters." Gordon made a slurping sound. "Ah, fresh tea. Nectar of the gods, though not quite on the same level as the concoction you're drinking."

"You have my promise I won't get drunk while I'm talking to you," Gene said, and was reassured by Gordon's quiet chuckle.

"Fair enough. Now if I recall correctly, we were about to discuss why you think you're not good."

"This isn't a thinkin' problem. I _know_ it." Gene took a defiant slug of beer. "I ain't good, and nothin' anyone says will ever convince me otherwise."

"Why?" The quiet question hung between them.

"'No reason to get excited, the thief he kindly spoke,'" Gene said at last. "There are many here among us/who feel that life is but a joke.'"

"'But you and I, we've been through that, and this is not our fate/so let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late,'" Gordon finished the verse.

"Should have known better than to quote Dylan to a former rock star."

"Former? _Former?_ I'll have you know my albums still enjoy a modicum of success in sales," Gordon said. "But we digress, dear boy. Do you truly believe life is nothing more than a jest of the gods?"

Gene sighed and took a swallow of beer. "Sometimes, yeah. Sometimes . . . it feels like nothing makes any sense. I'll be with Sare and our boy, everything just fine, life's good, and then . . . it's like I shouldn't be here, I'm . . . I'm not . . ."

"Not good enough," Gordon prompted.

"Not good. Period." Gene felt the darkness inside, patient, silent, waiting. "My wife, my son, they know some of me, but they don't know . . . they've never seen the worst. What I've done, who I've hurt . . . the ones I killed."

"Did you keep track of how many people you killed during your enlistment?"

"Yeah. It wasn't that many, compared to the numbers other people racked up. Six, though there were probably more. I couldn't keep track of every fuckin' round. All but one were civilians, including the boy." He saw them all, in his mind's eye.

"You must understand on at least an intellectual level that civilian casualties have been an unavoidable outcome in every war ever waged," Gordon said. "But more than just those deaths has you convinced you're not good." Gene said nothing. "Ah, thought so. Might as well bring it all out now, my boy. In for a penny, in for a pound."

"I don't know if I can explain." Gene closed his eyes as apprehension drew a cold finger down his spine.

"Start with one word, and let the rest follow."

Gene drew a deep breath. He tasted the hops and malt on his tongue, felt the warm leather of the office chair cradling him. "I . . . I brought it on myself."

"You mean you signed up voluntarily to enter the military," Gordon said. "Let me ask you this: were you fully aware of the ramifications of that action?"

"I knew what it meant. My family's full of jarheads." Gene slugged some beer. "I heard all the stories, the ones they tell after the women and kids have gone to bed."

"How old were you?"

"Started when I was six. By the time I graduated from high school it was pretty clear I'd be following in everyone's footsteps."

"Why?"

Gene sighed. "It was expected. I knew I'd go to college eventually, but . . ." He tipped his head back.

"That doesn't sound voluntary to me. It sounds like you were pushed into a course of action for which you had no great liking."

". . . yes." He'd never admitted it to anyone, never said it out loud, but he'd struggled with the decision, agonized over it, for months. "I never liked killing anything. When we'd go hunting . . . I knew we needed the venison and rabbits to get through the winter, but sometimes someone would shoot an animal just to do it and it . . . it sickened me."

"You're a healer. You know more than most how precious is life." Gordon's quiet voice held understanding.

"But even knowing that, I deliberately chose enlistment with the understanding that I would likely be asked to kill people at some point. Is that the sign of a _good_ person, a fucking healer?" The darkness spilled out now, bitter, acidic. "I'd say no."

Gordon didn't answer right away. "I'm going to request you do something," he said finally. "It's simple and you may accomplish it in your own time, though I'd like it completed before we talk again next week."

Gene's fingers tightened on the bottle. "What is it?" he asked, wary of what lay ahead.

"I would like you to write a letter to the boy you killed. And if you believe you can, I want you to read it to Sarah."

Thirty minutes later, Gene sat in the barn with guitar in hand. He paused in mid-strum to pick up the fresh beer he'd just cracked, and took a long, slow sip. He lingered on the edge of a respectable buzz, not quite tipped in yet, but getting there. When the door opened he didn't bother to look; he knew who it was.

"Getting a head start. That's the spirit." Greg came in, keyboard case in hand. He wore a thick jacket with the collar turned up against the chill of the evening. He gave Gene a quick, penetrating stare, then set the keyboard case on the bed and dumped his jacket next to it. Without another word he went to the cube fridge and extracted a beer, popped the cap, took a swallow. He moved back to the chair by the keyboard stand, sat down. "Tough session," he said, but it was not in commiseration; it was an inquiry.

"Don't wanna talk," Gene said. "Tired of talkin'. Let's just . . . just play. Okay?"

After a moment Greg gave a single nod. "'kay."

Once the keyboard was set up they noodled around, playing bits and pieces, warming up. Greg followed his lead, head bowed a little. Now and then he continued the bass line with his left hand while he took a swallow of beer. It was enough to keep things moving, so Gene didn't care. When the song formed under his hands he went with it, felt the music turn harder, colder, and welcomed the change. He'd had enough of hurting.

_hey Joe_

_where you goin' with that gun in your hand_

As he played he saw himself walking down the dry roadbed with his buddies, dusty, tired but watching, always watching, scared under the casual talk and bullshit, tense, heart rate and breathing elevated-'alert alive', his dad and uncles always said. He still woke up from dreams about patrols with his breath banging in and out of his chest and sweat beaded on his skin.

_hey Joe_

_I heard you shot your woman down_

He stopped playing. "_Shit_," he said under his breath. "Goddammit." On a wave of pain he closed his eyes. "I didn't shoot her, dammit. I didn't shoot them. I didn't!"

"Gene." Greg said his name quietly. "What the _fuck_. If you're trying to freak me out, it's working."

Gene draped his arms over the guitar and sat back. He stared into the rafters above him, the marks of the adze used to shape the logs still visible in the old wood. "Life sucks," he said after a while.

"There's some breaking news. It only took you forty-odd years to figure it out. Fucking genius." Greg took another long swallow of beer. "Your little _tete a tete_ with the Brit brought this on, no doubt."

"It wasn't anything I didn't know already, so get off my damn back." Gene picked up his beer, finished it and contemplated the empty bottle. "I got a good woman and kid, got a good life. And I don't deserve none of it."

"Oh, here we go," Greg said. His sardonic tone stung. "I'm sure you're gonna enlighten me whether I want you to or not."

"Don't plan to enlighten you or anyone else." Gene got up and set the guitar aside, took the bottle to the box where they put the empties, and set it inside. "Singh and Jay will be here in a few minutes. Let's get out the playlist."

Greg said nothing, but Gene felt the other man watching him with a wary eye through the practice session. It was a good one; they'd played together long enough now to get into the songs with ease. The music didn't help tonight, though. He couldn't open to it.

They were nearly at the end when Gene said "I got a request." He didn't look at the others. "You guys know 'Copperhead Road'. Let's play it."

"Any particular reason?" Greg wanted to know. Gene strummed a chord.

"Because I want to play it." He smelled dust thick in the parched air, heat waves shimmering in the distance as they walked patrol.

"Okay," Jay said after a moment's silence. "I'll kick it off, if you take the vocals." He shifted in his seat. "Too bad Sarah's not here, she could play the mandolin part."

"She doesn't need to be here for this," Gene said. "Let's go."

_I volunteered for the Army on my birthday_

_they draft the white trash first 'round here anyway_

_I done two tours of duty in Vietnam_

_and I came home with a brand new plan_

He heard other voices rise around his as he sang-youthful voices, tuneless for the most part, with laughter, pain, buried fear and rage all mixed together, a potent and toxic brew.

_I learned a thing or two from Charlie don't you know_

_you better stay away from Copperhead Road_

The session ended in near silence, without the usual joking around and casual put-downs. Gene knew it was down to him, and felt a moment's guilt at dumping his bad mood on everyone else. As a consequence he'd planned to walk back to the house alone, but Greg joined him when he left the barn.

"I don't wanna talk about jack shit," Gene said, hunched inside his coat, the song still echoing in his head. Greg shrugged, the movement just visible.

"Okay by me."

"Okay then."

"Whatever."

They set off together down the road. Gene watched Greg striding along beside him, his long legs moving with ease. _You helped him find healing_, a little voice whispered deep inside. He looked away.

"Big fuckin' deal," he muttered under his breath.

"You said you didn't wanna talk," Greg pointed out.

"I'm not."

Gene could almost hear Greg's eyes rolling. "Whatever."

As they reached the access path to the back yard Gene saw someone was home-probably both Sarah and Jason by this time. Yellow light spilled from the back door window. Greg paused, ready to head to his own house.

"If I'd thought you were anything like my old man when we first met, I wouldn't have worked with you." His grin flashed white in the faint reflective light. "Suck it up, you fuckin' buttercup." And he was gone, loping into the darkness. Gene felt a half-smile tug at his lips. He stared at the scene before him and gripped the handle of the guitar case tight in his fingers. This was his home, one he and Sare had created with hard work, sweat, laughter and love; now they shared it with the son they never thought to have, a treasure so precious he had no words for it. There were many good memories here, ones he'd hoped would silence the other, older ones he carried inside him. But it didn't work that way, and all the wishing in the world wouldn't change things.

"Write the letter, my dear boy, and give Sarah your secret," Prof had said. Gene blew out a breath, lifted his gaze to the stars overhead, glittering in the tree branches.

"Dammit," he said under his breath, and moved forward into the light.

_'All Along the Watchtower', Bob Dylan_

_'Hey Joe', traditional (Jimi Hendrix version)_

_'Copperhead Road', Steve Earle_

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome.**_


	6. Chapter 6

**_(Many thanks to all who have added me and/or my stories to their Alerts and Favorites lists, as well as those who continue to read and review. As always, I'm deeply honored and very humbly grateful. -B)_**

_October 4th_

_7:15 a.m._

Greg sits on the bed, staring down at his feet. They look perfectly ordinary, long and skinny, toes slightly curled—nothing wrong at that end of things. What interests him more is the tickle at the back of his throat. It's more pronounced when he bows his head slightly this way. It is a sure sign that he's been infected with a virus of some kind—probably that nasty head cold that's been making the rounds.

He is not happy about this event. While it has one slightly positive aspect-he won't be able to go to work for at least two weeks, since his patients are immuno-compromised-that means he'll be stuck at home while forced to endure video conferences and consultations by phone. And that also means the spectre of boredom will haunt him for days.

"What's wrong?" Roz stands in the doorway to the bedroom. She comes in when he doesn't answer, and sits next to him. "You're sick."

"_Duh_. You and Goldman gave it to me," he growls, and chokes when the tickle flares into a violent urge to cough and sneeze at the same time. Without a word Roz gets up and goes to the kitchen, to return with a cup of water. When she offers it he doesn't take it. "Go to work and stop hovering."

"Do you want me to call you in?" she says, ignoring his weak attempt at provocation. "I can do that while you take a shower. You'll feel better."

His retort is swallowed up in a tremendous sneeze. He can already feel his sinuses swelling. Roz pats his shoulder in a gentle commiseration he finds infuriating, and picks up the phone. "Take a shower," she says again. "I'll make you some breakfast before I go out."

"Not hungry," he mutters, but gets up to do as she suggests.

The warm water feels good on his skin. He lets it pour over him as he leans into the spray, aware of a deep ache in his muscles and joints, and a lurking, disordered anxiety behind his thoughts. He can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he's gotten sick in his lifetime. He has his mother's strong constitution and healthy immune system. When a virus does get past his defenses, it's thoroughly miserable experience. He is not looking forward to the next fourteen days.

Eventually he shambles into the kitchen in a clean tee shirt, sweats and his flannel robe, to find Roz making tea. Any faint feelings of goodwill he's managed to dredge up vanish. "I am NOT drinking that crap," he snaps. "Forget it. No tea, no buttered toast, no poached eggs!"

Roz fills the teapot with just-boiled water. "Coffee will upset your stomach. So will eating heavy foods. I've already made jello and Sarah's bringing over some soup later, so you might as well get used to the idea that for the next few days, you'll be eating light."

"I'm not five years old!"

She takes the kettle to the stove and turns to face him, arms folded. "Could have fooled me." Her tone is quiet but he hears mild exasperation behind it-and just that fast it is his mother standing there, wiping her hands on a tea towel, looking harassed.

_("You __must__ do as I say, Gregory. I don't have time to waste babying you when your father is coming home tomorrow and this house still needs a complete cleaning. You should work hard on getting better right away, and that means you do as I tell you. Do you understand?")_

"_Amante_," Roz says, and comes over to sit next to him, as she did in the bedroom. "If you really don't want tea, there's the sports drink in the fridge. I can pick up more on the way home from work."

"Coffee," he says. He's being a pain, he knows it. Roz sighs, but when he looks at her, she's smiling, her green eyes full of amusement and concern. She really is worried about him. He can't help but take a little comfort in it despite trying not to.

"It's your funeral," she says, and takes the teapot to the sink, where she pours out the contents and rinses the interior with care. "I won't make it for you, that's on your head. Just don't do in the whole pot, okay? Get some sports drink or water into you-"

"Who's the one with the damn medical degree?" he says, and ruins it with a huge sneeze. Roz grabs the tissue box from the counter and plops it down in front of him, leans in and gives him a brief kiss on the cheek.

"Say hello to your new best friend," she says. "I'll see you later. Call me if you need anything," and goes to get her jacket and toolbox and head off to work.

After she's gone the house is quiet. He brews a half-pot of coffee, but the first cup tastes weird and acidic-one of the side effects of a cold he knows well from previous encounters, it messes up his sense of taste early on and takes it away completely toward the end. So he abandons the joe and opts for a sports drink, the purply-grape stuff. It's fairly awful but at least it doesn't give him indigestion. He fries an egg and reheats some sausage links, eats a few bites, and feels the food sit in his stomach like concrete. So much for that idea too. Muttering under his breath, he dumps everything in the sink, takes his drink and the tissues, and goes into the living room to settle on the couch.

The next hour is an agony of _ennui_. After talking with McMurphy and Singh about tests and a few mundane matters, he turns on the tv and goes through the channels. There's nothing on-morning news and talk, reruns of _Charmed_ and _Perry Mason_, old movies. Even a quick troll of the Science Channel and NatGeo reveals nothing interesting. He checks On Demand and pay per view; zilch there too. And when he tries to play one of his handheld games, he can't seem to concentrate. There's no way he can sit in front of the computer either, he's too achy and sore. So he puts on ESPN for lack of anything better to do, and lies under the soft throw feeling sorry for himself.

About an hour into this misery Greg hears a knock at the back door, and Sarah's cheerful voice. "It's just me, I'm coming in!" He rouses himself to sit up as she enters the kitchen. "Man, it's blowin' out there!" The day is overcast and gloomy, with cold rain and fallen leaves flung around by fitful gusts of chill, damp wind. After a moment Sarah appears in the doorway. She is a charming sight with color in her cheeks and carroty curls all over the place under her jacket hood. "How's the patient?" she wants to know, smiling.

"Fucking _peachy_," he snarls, unwilling to admit he's glad to see her. Sarah chuckles.

"Yeah, thought so. Brought you some good stuff to keep you entertained. I can stay for the day too, if you like."

The thought has the absurd effect of cheering him up a bit, an effect he puts down to his rising temperature. Still, of course he can't give in so easily. "I don't need company," he informs her, "and if you didn't bring booze, porn and smokes I'm not interested."

"I brought nothing of the kind, as well you know," she says, unfazed by his crabby demeanor. "There's hot homemade chicken soup, some excellent non-fiction titles culled from the shelves at the library, and a selection of great movies. And I'm making you tea." She disappears into the kitchen. Greg sits there, torn between holding the hard line and giving in to his curiosity. Curiosity wins out, of course. When he enters the kitchen it's to find Sarah pouring the contents of a large container of chicken soup into the slow cooker.

"We'll leave it on low and you can dip into it anytime you like," she says, and puts the lid on the cooker, then goes to the stove to set the kettle to boil. "I know you don't want to hear it, but tea is the best thing for you right now."

"Did I ask for any of this?" he demands. "Do you really have so much of nothing to do that you're reduced to coming over here to harass me?"

"I care about you," she says simply. "You're sick and could use a little being cared for. Since Roz is working, I thought I'd offer my services as foster mom until she comes home." She gives him a glance and smiles a little. "Go curl up on the couch, I'll bring everything out to you."

He is looking through the movie selection when she comes in with a tray. Hellboy follows her; Greg heard Sarah let him in earlier.

"Breakfast," Sarah announces with disgusting cheerfulness. There's a bowl of soup, a small stack of buttered toast, and a steaming cup of tea with lemon wedges, honey and to his surprise and interest, what looks like a shot of whiskey. Sarah sets the tray on the table. "Tea first," she says cheerfully, and picks up a lemon wedge. The Heebster climbs onto the back of the couch and settles in near Greg's head, then proceeds to take a bath, hind leg high in the air.

"I'm not allowed to decide for myself?" Greg wants to know.

"Nope. You're feeling lousy and full of self-pity and in a thoroughly bad mood as a result, so I'm making decisions for you." She squeezes fresh lemon juice into the tea, adds a generous dollop of honey, and dumps in the shot. A few stirs and she hands it to him. "Give that a try."

He doesn't take the cup. "Dosing me with alcohol . . . _nice_."

"Oh, shut up. You'd be drinking beer right now if you could, so don't get all self-righteous on me," she says. "Give it a taste."

"This is some concoction your grandmother thought up, isn't it?" he wants to know.

"It's an ancient Celtic tradition to drink hot tea and whiskey punch when you're ill." She sets the cup down in front of him. "_Try_ it. It's good."

He eyes her with suspicion. She offers him a sunny smile, her own brand of gentle mockery, but her gaze holds worry and affection in equal amounts. So he picks up the cup, sniffs it, and takes a little sip. A lovely blend of astringent black tea, fresh lemon, wildflower honey and good Glenfiddich whiskey hits his tongue. Even with his sense of taste distorted by the oncoming cold, he likes it. It's sweet and tart and smoky all at once, and it makes his scratchy throat feel better immediately.

"Hah," Sarah says, and takes a slice of toast. She has her own cup of tea, _sans accoutrements_. "Told you."

"Told you," he mocks, but his heart isn't in it. He drinks the tea and manages some toast and soup as well before a wave of tiredness sweeps over him. The next thing he knows Sarah's taking his temperature with a digital thermometer. It beeps and she checks it.

"Up a little," she says. "Why not grab a power nap? We can watch a movie together later if you like."

"You are _cosseting_ me," he says in accusation. Sarah tilts her head a little, smiling.

"Why, yes I am, son," she says. "Kinda slow on the uptake this morning, aren't ya?" She takes the empty cup from his hand. "That's a definite sign you need someone to look after you. Be right back," and she's off, to return with some pillows and a blanket. Before he knows it he's tucked in comfortably.

"Stop it," he says in automatic protest. "I can take care of myself."

"Close your eyes," she says in reply, and despite his best intentions he responds to the mild authority in her voice and does as she says. Later he'll fight back, but for now he really is tired . . . He drifts off to sleep while Sarah is in the kitchen washing dishes. The soft, homely clatter of plates and cookware going into the dish rack eases his anxiety for some reason.

When he wakes up an hour or so later, Hellboy is curled up at his feet, nose to tail, a black furry lump. Sarah's settled in the easy chair next to the couch, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose as she peruses some tome or other. He watches her, unwilling to admit he enjoys the intensity of her concentration, the unconscious grace of her small hand as she turns the page. As he lies there the tickle in his throat returns, stronger now, and he can't hold back the cough. By the time he's done hacking up his lungs, there's another steaming cup of tea waiting for him. This time he doesn't hesitate. As he sips the hot brew Sarah glances at him over her glasses.

"You might like this," she says, "check it out," and she reads a passage to him. It turns out to be a former FBI profiler's theory on the possible identity of Jack the Ripper. The conclusions are surprisingly logical and well-reasoned, drawn from what little solid evidence is still available on a very cold case. Greg listens with interest, glad to fasten his thoughts onto something, anything that will keep them occupied for a while. He hates having nothing to think about. And though he would never say so to her, it's pleasant to have Sarah read to him. She has a parent's talent for making the words come to life, her soft, clear voice familiar and pleasing.

"So this guy thinks the Ripper was an immigrant," he says when she's done. Sarah nods.

"It makes sense. No one would really notice him as unusual or out of place, and he'd probably live in Whitechapel or cheap digs close by, which fits the evidence for killing on home turf." She flips a page. "I never bought the Duke of Clarence or prominent-physician theories. Too complicated."

"Occam's Razor," Greg says. "How very clever of you."

"I've read a book or two on the subject of serial killers," Sarah says. Greg manages a weak snort. He knows she has an entire shelf of books dedicated to the subject.

They discuss it a little more, desultory conversation that eases him back into a doze. He drifts in and out of sleep, aware his temp is rising, but not too worried about it. He usually has initial fever and chills with virus-based illnesses. At some point he feels Sarah's hand on his forehead. He cracks open one eye and peers at her.

"_Cosseting_," he growls. For answer Sarah lets her hand move down to his cheek.

"Blythe doesn't seem the type," she says quietly. There's no condemnation in her words. "I am, so you'll just have to put up with it."

"Your mother wasn't the type either."

"No she wasn't, and that's a fact. So now that you and I are both grownups, we can offer a little cosseting to someone we care about, or even to ourselves. Nothing wrong with that." She gives his cheek a light caress, then pats his shoulder gently before she gets to her feet. "Take a look through the movies and choose something you like, we can watch it together. I'll be right back."

His worries about a Jane Austen marathon are put to rest by the selections she's brought over—action, sci-fi and comedy. One of the choices is _Horse Feathers_, an old favorite of his from childhood; he loved all the early Marx Brothers movies for their cheerful anarchy and surrealism, a delicious, rebellious contrast to the rigid order and humorless discipline of his parents household. He _could_ make her sit through _Blackhawk Down_ or _Star Trek: Into Darkness_, knowing she'd be okay with it, but she made him tea with whiskey—not once but twice. That deserves a small reward.

When he hands Sarah the DVD case she gives him a quick look and a slight smile, but says nothing. She just puts it in the player. Soon enough they are both chuckling at the familiar humor. When Groucho starts singing 'I'm Against It' Sarah sings with him, her enjoyment plain. She shares several traits in common with Groucho, not the least of which is a capacious sense of and delight in the absurd.

"Five year old," he says.

"That's good coming from you," she says, and flashes him a grin. "This song could have been written in your honor."

"And of course you'd know nothing about being stubborn."

"I am the Goddess of Sweet Reason," she says, just to make him laugh, which of course makes him cough too.

They spend the rest of the morning and the afternoon this way with him dozing off now and then, so that it seems like no time at all before Roz is standing in the doorway saying "Looks like you two have been making the most of a sick day." She actually sounds pleased, not disapproving.

"I'll come over tomorrow for the morning," Sarah says before she leaves.

"Don't have to," Greg points out. "You've done your good deed for the week."

"Good deeds are for Boy Scouts," she says. "I was never a Boy Scout, though I did date one once. Never again." Her sea-green eyes hold amusement. "I enjoyed your company today. I hope you did too."

"You enjoyed forcing your will on a helpless sick man."

"'Whatever it is, I'm against it'," Sarah sings, and zips up her jacket. "See you tomorrow, son."

Roz takes the easy chair when Sarah is gone. To his surprise, she reaches out to clasp his hand in hers.

"It's just a cold," Greg says. "You're both acting like it's double bronchitis and a temp off the charts or something."

"Your foster mom likes taking care of you. Let her," his wife says. "I'm grateful because it means you're easier to live with, and I don't have to cater to you too much." She belies this statement by bringing his hand to her lips and brushing a kiss over the backs of his fingers.

"Icky germs," he reminds her, and she smiles.

"I'm immune, remember?"

For the remainder of the evening, while they watch tv and she gets him drinks and tissues and a bowl of jello, she reclaims his hand every time she sits down next to him. After a while he allows himself to enjoy it.

_The book Sarah reads from is 'Cases That Haunt Us,' by Jack Douglas. Thanks to InTheHouse for suggesting the title-it's an excellent read, highly recommended :)_

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. **_


	7. Chapter 7

_October 14th_

_Columbus Day_

_11 a.m._

_Dear Sydney,_

_it's been some time since my last letter. I'd say I hope all is well with you, but undoubtedly you're as good as you'll ever be. Let's just say I hope wherever you are, you're enjoying the experience._

_Life here continues on. Everyone and everything is growing, changing. Sometimes I feel like some evolutionary branch doomed to die out, watching all the other organisms move on without me. But that's just a fancy way of saying I've had the occasional wallow in self-pity. They're short wallows, though, and I feel both disgusted with myself and better at the same time when they're done, sort of like eating an entire half gallon of double-fudge butter pecan ice cream while watching a chick flick. So no harm, no foul._

_My little brother is calling me today._

Sarah put down her pen and sat back. She picked up her teacup, drained the cooling dregs and sucked the sugar out of the bottom, making a most regrettable noise in doing so; she could almost hear Prof scolding her in just those words.

The morning around her was a quiet one. Jason was out back working in the garden, planting garlic and onion sets using the square foot gardening plan they'd decided on. Gene was in town getting his hair cut and picking up supplies for caulking the windows to cut down on drafts. Somewhere off in the distance, a tractor putted and growled—some farmer harvesting a crop or getting things ready for winter. All in all, an unremarkable day off . . . and she knew the task next on her list would change that. Her brother would call in the next few minutes, and she wasn't sure if she was ready.

Gene had offered to sit with her, but she'd declined. She didn't want anyone else in the room when she talked with Ben. If he tried to hurt her she could hang up on him, but she didn't think he would attempt anything like that. His letter hadn't been a ruse; his words had held honesty, and regret. She recognized it from her own long and intimate acquaintance with both feelings. With reluctance she picked up her pen once more.

_I'm of two minds about talking with him, Sydney, and that is not just a figure of speech. While the adult psychologist in me knows this will be good for both of us, the young girl isn't so sure. We grew up in a household full of chaos and pain, and when I tried to escape and take him with me, it didn't work. He got left behind. He's hated me ever since. _

She set her cup on the desk when the phone rang. The sound shocked her, though she'd been expecting it. Slowly she reached out, picked up the receiver. "H-hello?"

"Sare." Ben sounded wary, and anxious.

"Ben," she said. "How—how are you?"

"Not bad for circlin' the drain." He said it without anger. "Doin' okay today." There was a brief pause. "Thanks for readin' my letter and takin' my call."

"You're welcome." Sarah took a deep breath. "I'm sorry you're sick."

He sighed, a low, quiet sound. "I deserve it."

"No you don't." She looked out at the sunshine, and Jason bending down to plant a garlic clove. "You had good reasons to be mad, darlin'." The old endearment slipped out before she could stop it. "That doesn't mean you should be punished. You got hurt in some terrible ways."

"So did everyone else, like you." Ben didn't speak for a moment. "How's your family?"

"They're all right." She wasn't ready to offer personal information, not yet. "Do you have anyone coming out to see you?"

"Matt's been by a coupla times. Still a dick."

A slight smile tugged at Sarah's lips. "Yeah, well. No surprises there."

"That's true. He always was a prick, some things ain't never gonna change. I don't mind. If he was nice t'me I'd get scared." Ben gave a single chuckle. "He don't know nothin' different. Not like you."

"I'm still a Corbett," she said, not sure whether to be pleased or insulted by his remark. "Mean streak and all."

"Maybe, but you were smart enough to get out while you could."

"I wish you could have come with me. I—I tried, Ben. I tried to get you out of that house." It was a regret she'd lived with for years now, one that visited her in the small hours or at odd moments.

"I know you did. Wouldn't done no good anyway." Ben coughed and winced. "Dammit. Sure could go for a coupla shots and a smoke."

"Grandma Bailey would tan your hide for saying that," Sarah dared to tease just a little.

"Mean old bitch. I bet Satan's got her in charge of whuppin's. Guess I'll find out soon enough." He coughed again. "I'm gettin' tired, sis. We better call it quits for now."

"Okay. Do you-will you call again?"

"Yeah, if you want me to." He sounded wary once more.

"Yes, I want you to." She nodded, though he couldn't see her. "I'm working in the afternoons, but if you leave a message I'll call back."

"You ain't at that nutjob hospital no more?"

Sarah almost laughed. It was as good a description of Mayfield as any she'd heard. "No, I have my own practice now. I-I work with families and older children, mostly."

"That's good. You got a way with kids, Sare. You was always good to me, you knew how to say things so I'd understand." He was silent a moment. "I better go."

"Okay. Ben-" She hesitated. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

"I'm tryin'. You take care of yourself too, sis."

She sat for a long time after the call was done, her emotions all over the place. Every time she tried to grab hold of some thought or feeling, it slithered out of her grasp. After a while she gave up and went over the brief exchange, sensing the shifts and subtle, unspoken emotions between them. Ben had wanted to say more, but he was as unsure of her as she was of him. Maybe that would change, in time. She wasn't certain though; they'd both hurt each other deeply over the years, in inadvertent and deliberate ways.

"Thinking up new torments for your patients?" Greg stood in the doorway watching her. While his tone was light and mocking, his gaze was sharp. Sarah looked at him.

"Come on in," she said quietly. He pushed into the office, grabbed Gene's chair and eased into it, propped his feet on the desk and folded his hands over his middle, a process so familiar it almost made Sarah smile.

"What's up?" He watched her carefully.

"You're not at work."

He shrugged. "It's a federal holiday."

"That's your excuse?" Sarah rolled her eyes.

"I don't see you hanging out in your official digs, so no pointing fingers." He glanced at the cordless phone still in her hand. "Who called?"

"Talked to my brother," she said. "As you know perfectly well. Don't try to deny you're checking up on me to make sure I'm not freaking out."

Greg tilted his head a bit. "And?"

"We didn't say too much. It was a short call, he got tired fast." She felt an old sorrow settle on her quietly, a soft, familiar weight. "He's not gonna be here much longer. But he . . . he called me 'sis' twice." She closed her eyes for a moment. "Haven't heard that in quite a while. It felt . . . weird. But good too."

"You're sure he's not playing you." Greg shifted a bit. "Never underestimate someone's ability to pull a last fast one."

Sarah considered it. "No," she said finally. "I don't get that sense from him. He might still fight with me, but I don't think he's out for revenge."

Greg shook his head. "Eternal naivete," he said. "But that's not my problem. I'm here to invite you to dinner. Wifey has some hideous recipe she wants to try out on new test subjects. She's tired of poisoning me and the cat."

Sarah eyed his long frame. He'd filled out since he'd started running on a regular basis; he'd never be muscular, but he wasn't thin now, just lean. " Hellboy was over for a visit yesterday, all sleek and sassy. You look just about the same as he does."

Greg raised his brows in a mild leer. "Is that an invitation?"

"Considering your name isn't Gene Goldman, I'd say no." She set the phone in its base. "What time?"

"The woman of the house says six-ish. I say bring beer or don't bother." He eased his feet off the desk and stood, stretched a little. "Presumably you're calling the Brit next."

"Yeah, I am." She offered him a smile. "Thanks for coming over, son."

"Enlightened self-interest," he said, but his gaze held concern. "Don't forget the beer."

She called Prof after Greg left. He answered the phone promptly. "Sarah my love, a good morning to you."

"To you too. How's your Monday so far?"

"Hard telling. I have only one cuppa inside me and I feel the distinct lack of caffeine most acutely." He paused. "I take it you've spoken with your brother Benjamin."

"Yes." Sarah allowed herself to take a little comfort in Gordon's warm voice. "It . . . it went all right. Kind of."

"Well, why don't you give me the particulars and we'll sort it out together."

She told him about the brief conversation. "I got the feeling he . . . he wanted to say more, but he doesn't trust me not to hurt him. I don't know, maybe I'm projecting, because I felt that way myself."

"Well, that's quite possible, and as usual a very astute observation on your part, my dear. You always were quick on the uptake in class." Prof made a slurping sound. "Ah, nothing like the sugary dregs. One of life's small delights."

"So rude," Sarah said on a mock sigh.

"Bah. You of all people have no room whatsoever to comment, as well you know." Prof chuckled. "From what you've imparted, this first foray into getting re-acquainted went quite well, all things taken into consideration."

"It did. I just—I can't help thinking of how his life could have been if I'd gotten him out of that damn house." Sarah's good mood evaporated. "He never had a chance."

"My dear girl, we've discussed this at length on several occasions. You persist in using impossible standards as a rod for your own back. Therefore, we'll go over the facts once more. How old were you when you went to your grandmother?"

"Fourteen. But—"

"But me no buts, Sarah Jane. You are not responsible for the vagaries of your parents and their lack of love and compassion regarding their children. You were a child yourself." Prof's tone was stern but gentle. "You did try to save him, but your grandmother wouldn't allow it. I have always suspected an ulterior motive on her part."

"You never said anything about this before," Sarah said slowly. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that Mrs. Bailey knew quite well there is strength in numbers. It's much easier to control a prisoner, to make them feel powerless and alone, if they're isolated in their captivity. I believe your grandmother observed you and your brothers for some time, and decided you were the one over whom she could have the most influence. She probably viewed the others as lost souls and not worth her efforts. And they were boys, far more difficult to discipline and control, at least physically."

"You—you really think she saw us that way?"

"Not only you. Consider your mother's behavior. Whatever methods your grandmother used on you, I have absolutely no doubt she practiced them upon your maternal parent first. And you saw first-hand the results." Prof sighed softly. "Far be it from me to suggest every fucked-up adult is the direct consequence of a parent's bad judgment. There are plenty of thorough-going arseholes on this planet with wonderful mums and dads. But in this case, I believe the correlation is quite clear and fully justified."

Sarah said nothing for some time, taking in what he'd said. "So she made sure Ben couldn't escape, just so she would have me. Because . . . because Mom didn't turn out the way Grandma decided she should." A swell of fury filled her. "That miserable _bitch_."

"Pre-_cisely_. You have at long last placed responsibility with the appropriate party." Prof sounded pleased. "Well done."

"Why didn't you say anything about this before?"

"Sarah my love, you weren't ready," Gordon said simply. "Now when you speak with Benjamin again, you'll see things from a different perspective. I believe it will open the way for you to find the closeness you've been denied for so long, and which you both deserve."

She sat in silence after the call was done, staring out at the bright day beyond the window. A few leaves fell past the clear glass, russet and gold, green mottled with scarlet. The hills beyond the meadow held the first edge of prime color; by the end of the week they'd be in full glory.

_I wish Ben could see this. I mean really see this, not just pictures._ She wasn't surprised to find tears in her eyes at the thought. She wiped them away with trembling fingers, then booted up the computer. She chose a playlist and picked up her pen as the music began to play.

_You would like my analyst, Sydney. He's a bit of all right, as his people say. I met him in university, when he taught my first class on psychology. Over the years he's become my mentor and the closest thing to a father I'll ever have, and I'm blessed to know him. He gave me an insight today that's changed everything . . . everything. Sometimes I think if humans have any truly useful function, it's offering insight from outside and objective observation. But then I would say that, since it's my job description after all, and it was yours too. I know you understand. Anyway, he's just shown me how to give someone something they've needed for a long time, and I can't wait to get started._

A tentative knock at the door brought her out of her thoughts. Jason stood in the doorway, still bundled into his jacket and work gloves. "Hey," he said, clearly uncertain as to his welcome.

"Hey you," Sarah said, and gave him a smile. "How's it going?"

"Garden's done. Are you okay? You're crying. Did your brother hurt you?" He was trying to keep his expression calm, but Sarah could see her son was beside himself with worry.

"Everything's okay," she assured him. "I had a good talk with your uncle Ben, and I talked to Prof too. We had a really excellent session. Everything's cool."

Jason shifted a bit, but he still looked anxious. "Well . . . okay."

"I have an idea," Sarah went on. "Why don't we take some vids of the fall color and you and your dad to send to your uncle, if you're both okay with that? Ben would like it."

That surprised him. "Okay," he said slowly. "I thought . . . you weren't gonna let him know too much about us."

"Let's just say . . . now I can give my brother something he needed a long time ago." Sarah set her pen aside and stood. "Come on, let's leave a note for Dad. Are you all right with using the recorder?"

"Yeah, it's okay with me. Dad's home, he just drove up," Jason told her.

"Excellent. You get the recorder and we'll meet you outside."

Gene had just set an enormous pumpkin on the porch when Sarah came out. She went straight to him and enfolded him in her arms, her cheek against his chest. He returned her embrace without hesitation—the best home she'd ever known, and the only one she ever wanted.

"Everything okay?" he wanted to know. She nodded.

"It's all good," she said, and it was.

_everybody needs a place to rest_

_everybody wants to have a home_

_don't make no difference what nobody says_

_ain't nobody like to be alone_

_everybody's got a hungry heart . . . _

_'Hungry Heart', Bruce Springsteen_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome._**


	8. Chapter 8

**_(I've had some comments about House not showing up much in this story. There's not really much I can say without coming off as defensive. So I'll leave it at this: over the years this 'verse has become something of a rambling Winchester Mystery House, with many OCs standing beside the canon characters, and in this world they're as important as House to the storyline. The story writes itself the way it wants, I am merely the corporeal typist. House shows up when he shows up. If that bothers you or is unsatisfactory, check out my Favorite Authors list-there are many excellent stories there, grab a title and start reading. :) Having said that, my muse has assured me House will be in the next chapter. -B)_**

_October 14th_

_7 p.m._

_as far as my eye can see_

_there are shadows approaching me . . . _

"Hey, you awake?"

Ben woke from a light doze to find a laptop propped on the adjustable table over his bed. He yawned and squinted at it, aware as he always was of the pain rumbling quietly in his side, subdued but not banished by the narcotics.

"I am now. What's this?" he asked. Slowly he sat up, careful not to tangle his lines. "You finally lettin' me enjoy some decent porn?"

"Yeah, that'll happen. Someone sent you a video." Holly shook her head but smiled at him as she booted up the computer. She was his usual nurse for weekday evenings. As did the other nurses and staff in the hospice, she treated him like a human being. He still wasn't used to it. "I think it's your sister."

Ben stared at the screen in surprise. "Sare? She sent me somethin'?"

"Let's take a look. Do you mind if I watch with you?"

"Nah, 'sokay." He gestured at the bed. "Sit."

Holly perched on the side and opened a browser screen. She clicked on something, and another smaller window opened up. "Here, let's make it bigger." As she did so, Sarah's face filled the monitor. She looked anxious, scared and excited at the same time, her pretty face surrounded with a riot of red curls and framed by the dark green hood of her jacket. She was older of course, with crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, and little threads of grey in her hair, but she'd filled out. That pinched, hungry look was gone, something he'd noticed when she'd come to visit him in jail.

"She's a cutie," Holly said. Ben nodded.

"Always was a looker." He watched as Holly started the video.

"Hey Ben," Sarah said, and her soft, sweet voice eased his heart, even as it ached too. "I thought maybe you might like a little tour of our place. The fall color's really good this year, so it seemed like a nice idea to share it with you."

She stepped back, and the view revealed a big meadow and in the distance, hills. Beyond them stood mountains—the real thing. They seemed to stretch on forever. Sarah gestured at them. "Our back yard," she said with a slight smile.

"_Mom_," an aggrieved young voice said off-camera. "We don't own any of that."

"So literal-minded." Sarah reached out, took the recorder. "Ben, this is my son Jason."

A teenage boy squinted into the lens with obvious reluctance. He was dark-haired with dark eyes, his features angular and strong. He needed a haircut-unruly black locks fell across his forehead in thick waves. But he was clearly healthy, tall—taller than Sarah, lean and sun-browned, and his clothes were new and clean and a bit small on him; he was still growing. "Hey," Jason said, and wiggled a finger at the camera. The look in those black eyes said _Isn't my mother a pain in the ass?_ Ben had to chuckle, even though it hurt.

"Oh, for pete's sake. Stop acting like you're being tortured," Sarah said as she handed the recorder back to the boy. Her laugh was like music, sweet and merry. Now the lens panned slowly past a full cord of firewood, all cross-stacked neatly to air-dry, what appeared to be a sizable garden, and a small patio area with a barbecue grill. "Our back porch and yard," Sarah said. "We'll take you inside a bit later. Right now we're off for a walk. Hey Gene, come on over and introduce yourself."

After a moment a tall man entered the frame. He was dark like the boy, with thick hair cropped short and strong features. He nodded slightly at the camera. "Hey," he said. Sarah came up next to him and slipped an arm around his waist, and Gene did the same with her.

"My husband," Sarah said with obvious pride and love. "Okay, let's go for a stroll."

They were genuinely happy, that was easy to see. The three of them walked along together through drifts of fallen leaves, and their talk was relaxed, comfortable. Ben felt a lump in his throat as he watched. The kid couldn't possibly be Sarah's, she'd said as much when they'd met during her time in Oklahoma—and yet he was her son as surely as if she'd birthed him. At one point the recorder offered a glimpse of Sarah's arm around the boy's shoulders. And he didn't seem to mind, in fact he actually stayed close to her and even hugged her back once. It wasn't faking for the camera, Ben could tell. It was just how they were.

They'd stopped, and the recorder's focus point moved to a far hill. Sarah gestured at it. "Just a few miles down that way are apple orchards. We'll go there tomorrow to pick a few bushels and make sauce and pies." She turned to look into the camera. "I wish you could go with us," she said, and glanced away, but not soon enough to hide a fleeting expression of sorrow. The sight of it shocked Ben in a way he couldn't describe. _She cares__,_ he thought, and struggled to take in the truth of it.

"I bet she's a good cook," Holly said. Ben nodded absently.

"Yeah, she always was." He remembered her in the kitchen at the old house in Tulsa, a skinny, bruised girl in shabby clothes and worn-out sneakers, stirring a vast pot of stew made from whatever she could scrounge. "She's good at takin' care of people." _But nobody in our family ever let her_, he thought. _Especially me._

They were walking back to the house now. It was possible to see the whole building-an old place, that much was clear, well cared-for and in decent shape. Smoke curled from the chimney, and there were pumpkins on the porch.

"Guess she got the home she always wanted," Ben said, more to himself than Holly.

"Hey, it's the Heebster," Sarah was saying. She bent down and came up into the frame with a big black cat in her arms. "This is Hellboy, he's visiting from his house across the lane." She stroked the cat's velvet fur. "We share breakfast most mornings, don't we, pretty boy?" She set him down with care and glanced into the camera. "All those times you called me a witch," she said, and flashed him a wicked, familiar grin. Ben shook his head, amused.

"Brat." But he didn't really mean it. Holly rolled her eyes.

"I can see how you two are related," she said.

The recorder went with Sarah and her family into the back porch, through a mudroom full of everyday stuff—boots and jackets, gloves and hats, a stack of firewood, a washer and dryer—to a kitchen that looked just as comfortable and lived-in as Ben had expected it would be. He could almost smell the fresh-baked bread and coffee.

"I'm gonna take you into the living room," Sarah was saying. She collected the recorder from her son and moved out of the kitchen, past a table with someone's homework spread out on it, into the most beautiful room Ben had ever seen.

"_Wow_," Holly said softly. Ben stared at the screen, but in his mind he heard a young girl saying _someday I'm gonna live in a treehouse_, her choked voice full of defiance and pain, and longing. This was as close as anyone could get to that vow and still have their feet firmly on the ground. It looked grand and homey all at the same time. The soft warm colors, the tall windows, the chairs and couch and shelves full of books—it was her dream come to life.

"Someday I'm gonna live in a treehouse," Sarah said. She set the recorder down on what appeared to be a coffee table, angled it up somewhat and looked into the lens. In her green-grey eyes, so much like his, like Dad's, he saw the old ache but peace too, for the first time. She sat down on the big couch in front of the fireplace. Warm light flickered over her features.

"I'll be honest with you," she said finally. "After . . . after everything that's happened over the years, it was really hard for me to do this. To—to bring you into our home. You hurt me." Her soft voice trembled just a little. "You really hurt me bad, Ben. I didn't want to give you another chance, in case you tried to go after my family somehow. But if we never allowed anyone to find grace . . . well. I asked my men and they agreed to this, but they're worried about you. Just so you know that. It might take them a while to warm up. You'll have to prove yourself, if-if that's something you want to do. I'll leave that up to you." She looked down for a moment. "So . . . I wasn't able to give you a good home when you needed it. That was never my responsibility, I get that now finally. But I have the chance to let you share my home now, a little of it anyway. If-if you want to. So-so let me know what you think." After a few moments she reached out and the screen went dark.

"That's a pretty good offer," Holly said in the quiet. Ben was about to reply when the screen opened up again. It wasn't Sarah this time however.

"Ben," Gene said. He was in what looked like an office, with shelves full of important-looking reference books behind him. He settled back and stared into the lens. "I'm takin' this opportunity for you and me to have a little man-to-man talk. I won't keep you too long, because what I have to say is real simple. You try to hurt my wife and boy, I'll take you out myself. You won't need to wait for the cancer to do it." There was a matter-of-fact tone in that quiet voice that told Ben the other man meant every word and knew how to make them reality. "Sarah's a good person and she sees the best in just about everyone. It's one of the reasons why I love her. But you and I, we know better. I'm hopin' you really are looking to make peace. God knows no one else in your damn miserable family's ever offered." He nodded. "I'll be keepin' an eye on things. Don't be stupid." And he was gone. Ben stared at the blank screen. Then he smiled just a little. _She's finally got a good man_, he thought. Aloud he said to Holly,

"Could you get me that big envelope in the night stand?"

"Sure." She hopped up and retrieved the mailer. As she handed it to him she said "Is what he said true?"

"Yeah. I was hard on Sarah. She didn't deserve none of it." He passed a hand over his eyes, exhaustion moving through him like a dark fog. "Nothin' I can do about that now." _Except maybe this_, he thought, and hoped it would be enough of an answer for someone he thought he'd lost years ago. "I'm gonna ask you to do something for me . . ."

_October 18th_

_9:30 a.m._

Sarah finished her tea and yawned. She got to her feet, stretched a bit, and took the mug to the sink. It was a cold, cloudy day, fit for nothing better than reading a good book or curling up on the couch with her husband. Unfortunately neither option was available; Gene and Jason were outside clearing the yard of fallen branches and sticks, preparatory to raking up leaves. And she had a house to clean, having neglected it all week long.

She went out to get the mail first. It felt good to walk down the drive, bundled up and snug in her warm jacket. She waved at her men on the way down to the mailbox, and enjoyed the crunch of fallen leaves under her feet.

The delivery was the usual collection of shopping circulars, coupons, bills, some professional correspondence for Gene-and a large padded mailer with an Oklahoma return address. Sarah stared at it as she traveled up the drive. Clearly it was from Ben, but what could it be?

She opened it at the dining table. Her fingers shook as she reached inside the envelope. A folded note emerged first.

_Sare,_

_thanks 4 showin me ur home. U have a good plase & a good famly, Im glad 4 u sis. _

_this was dads. I thot u shud have it now. _

_Ben_

The second item in the mailer was a battered old sketchbook, the cover torn and dirty. Sarah turned it over in her hands. She set it on the table, closed her eyes for a moment, drew in a deep breath. Then she looked down and opened the little book.

Gene and Jason found her there an hour later, absorbed in page after page of drawings, studies and notes, her cheeks still wet with tears.

_and oh, when I'm old and wise_

_bitter words mean little to me_

_autumn winds will blow right through me_

_and someday in the mists of time_

_when they ask me if I knew you_

_I'd smile and say you were a friend of mine_

_and the sadness would be lifted from my eyes_

_when I'm old and wise . . ._

'_Old and Wise', Alan Parsons Project (I used the vocal guide track by Eric Woolfson, paired with a beautiful short created by Dave McKean, the artist who drew the _Sandman_ graphic novel covers. Look at YT for break9away's video)_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. _**


	9. Chapter 9

_October 20th_

_5 p.m._

The conference room is full of sullen resentment. Well, if the expression on Chandler's face is anything to go by at least. It's a Sunday afternoon, and he's called them in for a meeting. McMurphy is here too, on her own initiative, but then she has a vested interest in the outcome.

"Couldn't this wait till Monday?" Chandler wants to know. Greg sits back in his chair and crosses his legs, just because he can.

"You're just upset because there are no doughnuts," he says. Chandler rolls her eyes.

"It's _Sunday_," she points out in her best pedantic manner. "Why did you call us in? We don't have any patients."

Greg glances at Chase. The younger man says nothing, just looks back at him with that imperturbable expression he's perfected over the years. "I'm thinking of streamlining the patient selection process—"

"—which is something we could discuss on Monday morning," Chandler says. She folds her arms and gives him a belligerent glare. "You're just jerking our chains because you can."

Greg raises his brows. "If I can't enjoy the perks of dictatorship, why bother to exercise my authoriteh?"

Leave it to Singh to get it right. "I'm here for the next half hour. After that all bets are off," he says. There is a glint of humor in his dark eyes. "If you force me to choose between the wrath of my boss for leaving a meeting and my wife's fury at me missing a soccer game with my oldest daughter, my wife wins every time."

Greg nods. "Well said. If the obstreperous one will pipe down, we can get through this and return to our respective activities." He casts a look at Chandler. "Okay with you?"

"Stop mocking me and get on with it," she says.

"Well fine," he says mildly, and catches a glimpse of Chase hiding a grin. "If you're gonna be that way about it, blame McMurphy. She's the one who came to me with the idea."

His head nurse sends him an inimical look from dark eyes, but she's amused too, he can read her tells pretty well by now. "Thanks," she says dryly. "I just thought maybe we should look into a paperless system . . ."

The discussion begins, with Chandler sulking while Chase and Singh debate the pros and cons with McMurphy.

"I like paper files," Singh says. "You get clues from handwritten notes you might not get from a tablet or computer screen."

"When you can read them," Chase points out. "Half the time the comments and stats are illegible when they haven't been transcribed."

"Or if they've been photocopied several times," McMurphy says. They all look at Greg. He shrugs.

"I got no horse in this race," he says. "You're the ones who use the files the most. I don't look at 'em unless you all fail to deliver." A bit of a stretch, but not by much.

"This could have waited until tomorrow," Chandler says once more. Chase gives her a direct look that says _get off it_ more clearly than even plain words could state. She subsides, but only for the moment. She is nothing if not persistent—and that's why Greg keeps her as a team member. When even Singh is ready to call it quits, Chandler keeps going.

The next twenty minutes are spent in back-and-forth, with no resolution at the end. "We'll talk about this tomorrow," Greg says, and waits for the glare Chandler will surely send his way. It isn't long in coming.

The drive home is a pleasant one. Fall color is at its peak now, and this year it's magnificent. The maples are nearly done, with just a few scarlet displays here and there, but the beeches, box elders, poplars, sycamores and black walnuts all show colors of yellow from rusty gold to lambent, coruscating amber. With the oaks in their brown coats and the deep green of the pines, it's a fine palette under the fading light of the blue sky overhead.

Of course the down side is the enormous layer of leaves in his yard, waiting to be raked up and dumped somewhere else, probably in Goldman's enormous compost bin. He'll get Jason to do the work somehow. On that happy thought he drives through the shifting piles to park Barbarella in the shed. As he closes the door, he sees Gunney and the kid in their back yard. There is an enormous pile of leaves between them. Jason turns his back and just that fast, Gene pushes him into the pile, and the battle is on, accompanied by shouted fake threats and a lot of laughter. Greg watches them, aware of amusement and a deeper emotion, a sort of pain deep inside that he has no wish or real need to acknowledge. After a few moments he goes inside.

The house welcomes him with music, and the fragrance of supper cooking. He stands there for a moment, the unnamed ache fading. Roz sits at the harvest table working on something—a lesson plan for one of her students, no doubt. She makes a pretty picture in the soft light, absorbed in her work. When he comes in she looks up, her slight frown of concentration smoothing into a smile of genuine pleasure. She gets to her feet in that graceful way he admires, and comes to him for an embrace and a kiss. They hold each other, not saying anything, and just enjoy the moment together.

"What's for supper?" he wants to know after a while. Roz gives him a resigned look, her green eyes full of humor.

"You just love me for my cooking."

"And sex," he says, sliding his hands down to her butt. She laughs and covers them with her work-worn, warm little mitts, her fingers massaging his gently.

They have dinner at the table after she clears away her work and cooks some pasta. Neither one of them says much, but it's a relaxed, peaceful meal, with the radio on and the wind rustling in the leaves outside.

"How did it go?" Roz twirls her pasta around her fork.

"Didn't get anything resolved," he says, and steals a meatball from her plate. "But they're thinking about it at least." He glances at the books and papers piled on the other end of the table. "Looks like you managed to stay occupied."

"I'm taking on a new student," she says quietly. "She's got potential. She wants to major in math eventually." She pushes the pasta around on her plate. "Just a freshman and already in Calc II."

He knows what she's feeling. "Something you wanted to do," he says. Roz doesn't look at him.

"Sort of."

"But somehow you ended up in trade school."

"Yeah, well." She sets her fork aside. "That dream was a long time ago."

"But you'd still like to."

She shrugs her shoulders. "Maybe."

"You could ask me if I think you should go back to school." He sits back a bit, watching her. She shakes her head.

"Too busy."

"So stop wiring houses and take classes at the community college." It's deliberate provocation.

"I make good money as an electrician." Roz sets her plate aside and turns to face him, but she's not upset. Her expression is thoughtful, almost somber. "I'd have to cut my hours by half, maybe more. It would mean a big reduction in our budget."

"Screw the budget." He really doesn't care about the money; they'll manage. "If you want it, do it."

She doesn't answer him for a few moments. Then she says, "I'm scared." Greg waits, knowing there's more. "What if . . . what if it's a mistake? All for nothing?"

"You mean, what if you flunk out or can't handle it." He sighs, impatient with her. "Not a big deal."

"But it would be time wasted—"

"No it wouldn't," he snaps. "I don't know why you're worried. If anything you'll end up graduating _magna cum laude_ and replace the head of the department when you go for your Masters, or even a doctorate."

Roz's eyes widen. "An advanced degree?" It's plain she's never considered it.

"If you're gonna do it, do it all the way."

She says nothing, just looks at him; she's checking to make sure he's serious. "I could take a couple of classes at first," she says finally. "Just—just to see if it would work."

He wants to tell her to go for a full credit load, but he gets that she's apprehensive. If he pushes too hard she'll back away. "No less than three classes. And you'll do it this week. The college will get you set up for the spring semester."

After a brief silence Roz nods. "Okay."

When supper is over she puts away the leftovers and washes up. Greg watches her from the living room, where he has the game on. She doesn't look worried or scared, but he can tell she's thinking about what they discussed. When everything is done she comes in and sits next to him on the couch, but she doesn't snuggle in.

"This is a big deal to me," she says, staring at the tv screen. "Thank you for—for understanding."

"Gonna thank me for not smoking too?" he wants to know. Roz gives him a wry look.

"I really don't want to fuck this up."

"What do you think would happen if you did?" he wants to know. "I'd leave? Kick you out? Never talk to you again? Decide to associate with someone smarter?"

Her gaze drops. "It's stupid to say yes, but there's a part of me that . . . that does." He can barely hear her. In exasperation he sits up, ready to bitch her out for being stupid—and then he sees her hands clasped in her lap, trembling. All his annoyance fades.

"Come here." He eases her against him. She curls into his embrace, her head resting on his shoulder. "No matter what happens, you won't fuck it up."

"I'm not college material."

"No one is." At her snort he persists. "What does that even mean? It's crap. Just a way to stuff someone into a pigeonhole labeled 'I think you're stupid but I'm too polite to say so'. No one is college material. Everyone gets thrown into the deep end that first year. Some people find a way to not drown, that's all."

"You probably did just fine." Roz takes his hand in hers.

"Shows what you know. I was expelled from two medical schools." He strokes her arm lightly with his fingertips, a slow, strumming motion, playing her like a guitar. "You're ready. You'll do fine."

They watch the game for a while. "Okay," Roz says eventually, and sighs softly. "Okay."

At the very end of the fourth quarter his father calls. "Watching football here, you old fart," Greg says.

"Dallas won that game by halftime," Hawkeye laughs. "So how are you? Haven't heard from you in a while. Everything okay there?"

"My wife has some interesting news for you on the education front." Greg hands the phone to Roz. She gives him a glare but her heart isn't really in it. She takes the phone and says "Dad?" After a moment a slow smile curls the corners of her mouth. Greg disentangles himself and gets up, to go to the kitchen and get a beer. By the time he returns she is laughing, her expression far more relaxed. As he resumes his seat she puts the conversation on speaker.

"So, I was wondering if you'd have me down for the holidays," Hawkeye says.

"Nothing like inviting yourself." Greg pops the cap on his beer and tosses it on the coffee table.

"Fine by me." Roz doesn't hesitate. "Stay as long as you like, we'd love to have you here."

"Is she right?" Hawkeye wants to know. "You really want me there?"

"How much turkey can you put away in one sitting?"

"Let's put it this way, Dad and I never had leftovers." There's a pause. "Listen, if you don't—"

"Just trying to figure out how much bird wifey needs to roast, that's all." Greg takes a long swallow of beer.

"I happen to know for a fact we'll be at the Goldmans for dinner."

Greg rolls his eyes. "So you're already planning to stay."

"I've been invited to Thanksgiving at Gene and Sarah's, nothing more." Hawkeye sounds like he's enjoying this exchange.

"Balls. Sarah gave you a room in perpetuity, no doubt."

"So spend some time with them, then come over and stay with us through New Year's," Roz says. She looks at Greg, asking silently if he agrees. He answers with a long slug of beer, just to make her shake her head at him.

"Well, if you're okay with that—yeah. Yeah, it would be great. I'd enjoy hanging out for more than a couple of days." Hawkeye sounds pleased.

"I suppose you'll want to loiter around the clinic," Greg says.

"If you still have McMurphy working for you, I'd be interested." There's a smile in his father's voice.

Greg can't help but chuckle at that. "Hitting on the hired help. You're all class."

"I take it you have no objections then."

"Makes no nevermind to me." He belches and puts his feet on the coffee table. "It's past your bedtime."

"Wow, what a noodge. Hey Roz, tell him to get his feet off the coffee table," Hawkeye says, chuckling.

They continue in this vein for a few more minutes, lobbing verbal volleys back and forth, and Greg is surprised to find he's enjoying the exchange. Hawkeye is not attempting to trap him into making a mistake, doesn't intend to lecture him on his shortcomings; there's nothing there but what appears to be genuine affection. It's still a source of amazement to him that his real dad wants to be a part of his life, and even more astonishing, the desire is mutual, to some extent at least.

The call ends with a promise from Hawkeye to get in touch with them in another week or so and settle details. When it's done Roz looks at Greg. "You like him," she says.

"Just because you do, don't project." He finishes off his beer.

"It's okay to like him," Roz persists. "He's worth it."

"And you'd know this how?"

"Sometimes he calls during the afternoon and we talk." She says it simply. "If he was just trying to scam you I'd know it by now. He's not. I'm not saying he wants to be your long-lost daddy. He just wants to know you better." She looks sad for a moment. "He won't be here forever."

"Something wrong with him?" The thought bothers him.

"He's old," Roz says. "What about Blythe?"

"What about her?" Greg gives her a sharp look. "You aren't thinking about having the two of them here together. _No_. No fucking way."

"No, I wasn't. But has she said anything to you?"

"She'll be at my aunt's place. It works for her and she's happy." He's not about to invite his mother to stay with them while Hawkeye's here.

"Okay." Roz leaves it at that. She doesn't want his mother to visit any more than he does, maybe even less. As far as he knows, Blythe has never been anything less than kind to his wife, but that's as far as it goes on either side. Mom has never been one to make friends, and it appears she isn't about to start now. She gets along with Sarah, but that's because they have him in common . . . He pushes the thought away and picks up the remote, shuts off the tv.

"Early to bed, early to rise," he says, and leers at Roz. She grins at him, takes his hand and goes with him into the bedroom.

After an enjoyable session of lovemaking they lie in each other's arms, listening to their breaths mingle and slow in the soft darkness. They've been together long enough now to sleep on opposite sides of the bed, but they still enjoy being close. He still likes falling asleep with his nose in his wife's soft, fragrant hair, her slender body spooned against him, pert little butt pressed to his thighs and belly and hands clasping his.

"Call the college tomorrow," he reminds her.

"Mmm . . ." She shifts a little closer, seeking comfort. "I will."

They settle into sleep, accompanied by the faint rustle of leaves in the yard, stirred by a chill autumn wind.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome._**


	10. Chapter 10

**_(I'm posting a warning here for sexual abuse triggers._**

**_The choice of song at the end of the chapter might seem a bit odd. It was the one that came up when this section was written. But if you consider it in the context of what comes before, it makes sense. Michael Murphy said the song came out of a dream he had. He felt it was ultimately about freedom. I've always loved the song from the first time I heard it, and hope you take the time to listen to it. -B)_**

_October 25th_

_2:30 p.m._

Jason rode into the clinic parking lot, pulled up next to the side door everyone used except the patients, and put his bike in the bare spot behind the bushes that had become his unofficial space. It wasn't as good a hiding place now that the leaves had fallen, but no one ever came back here anyway. Besides, once he dumped his stuff he could come back out and bring the bike into the entryway. McMurphy said it was okay, and nobody else (like House) had said anything about it.

There was a meeting going on in the conference room. Jason glanced that way as he headed for the kitchen. The whiteboard wasn't out and there were stacks of files on the table, so they were working on finding a patient. He wondered who they'd choose, and what was wrong. He'd get to sit in—House had given him permission to monitor the selection process and differentials, as long as he didn't talk about them with anyone outside the clinic staff.

But he was hungry, so for the moment that took priority. Jason grabbed some apple slices, a banana and several oatmeal-raisin cookies from various containers, washed them all down with milk, and topped it off with a couple of mini candy bars from the jar on the counter. Still munching, he went to the conference room and slipped inside, to take his usual seat in the corner. House sat at the head of the table, his feet propped on the gleaming wood. He glanced at Jason with shrewd blue eyes, but said nothing.

"It's Bassen-Kornzweig," Chase was saying. "Everything fits. The kid's got high levels of fat in her stool, abnormal blood cells, clotting time is off, she's even showing signs of retinitis—"

"It's more common with boys," Chandler said. She gave Jason a narrow look, then offered him a half-smile by way of greeting. He nodded at her and opened his English homework assignment.

"'More common' means about seventy percent of patients with abetalipoproteinemia are male. That leaves thirty percent for females, a one in three chance." Chase closed the file. "The symptoms fit, not one out of place. We should inform the pediatrician and the family."

House raised a brow at Chandler. She sat back and folded her arms. "It's not up to me."

"It's simple. Either you concur or you don't," House said. Chandler gave him a stony look.

"Since when has that ever mattered?"

Chase held up his hand and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "Playing just for you," he said. Jason bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He got busy with his homework, hoping he looked studious and above all, innocent.

"Wise choice," House said. Jason dared a glance at him and found the older man watched him while a corner of his mouth quirked up.

Dad came to pick Jason up an hour or so later. It was clear he was preoccupied, but the smile he offered was genuine. "How was your day?"

"Okay." Jason watched his old house as they passed it. Apparently someone had bought it, or whoever owned the property had decided to fix it up. A roofing truck sat in what passed for the driveway, and he could see a tree crew at work in the back yard. He wondered what the place would be like cleaned up. The thought was weird, disquieting. He couldn't imagine anyone who knew the history of the place ever wanting to live there . . . but if the rent was cheap enough someone would move in eventually, and another family might grow up there. He shivered a little and hoped whoever it was had a good mom and dad.

"You know, if you want to stop and look around we could do that," Dad said quietly. Jason didn't turn his head.

"No," he said after a few moments.

"Okay." And Dad left it at that, for which Jason was glad.

It felt good to walk into his real home, warm and welcoming as always. He dumped his backpack and jacket next to the washer in the mudroom as Mom called from the kitchen, "Hey you two, I'm home!"

Dad grinned. "Yes dear," he yelled back, and tossed his coat over Jason's.

Mom had a chicken ready to go into the oven, along with potatoes, onions, carrots and celery. A pan of cornbread cooled on the counter. Jason's mouth watered at the sight, but he wouldn't get any of it, at least not for supper. He was going out for dinner and a movie with Mandy and two of her friends from her creative writing class.

"How was your day?" Mom wanted to know. She looked at him and smiled, her eyes more green than grey, a sign she was happy. "Okay for a Friday?"

"Yeah." He snuck a slice of raw potato out of the pan. Mom rolled her eyes.

"Bottomless pit," she said on a laugh. "Put your stuff away and you can have a small snack before you go out, if you like. Lord knows you don't need it, but if you don't get one you'll eat the whole tub of popcorn before anyone else even gets a look at it. And that will be after your dinner, too." She softened her words by a gentle tug on his hair.

"_Mom_," he groaned, both delighted and annoyed at her teasing.

She laughed again. "Go get cleaned up."

He'd made the decision before his first date with Mandy a couple of weeks previous that he wouldn't wear anything different than his usual stuff. It was therefore a little surprising to find Mom and Dad in nice clothes—nothing dressy, but not what they wore around the house either.

"I like to look good when I'm out with my wife," Dad had said when Jason mentioned it. It was a simple statement, but Jason felt the emotion behind it. He thought about that as he went into his bedroom. Slowly he went to his closet and opened the middle drawer of the big chest Mom had bought at an auction over the summer. He stared down at his good shirts and considered his options.

A short time later he emerged from his room, self-conscious and feeling weirdly defensive. Dad saw him first; he said nothing, just nodded as he went into the kitchen. Mom was a bit more vocal. She looked him up and down as she wiped her hands on her apron.

"Just right," she said finally. "Your ride will be here in a few minutes. You have everything you need?"

"Yeah," Jason said. He'd checked as he put on the fresh shirt and jeans, and his jacket. Mom offered him a cookie.

"You'll be okay," she said softly. "Just be yourself. You're pretty cool, you know."

Jason rolled his eyes. To his relief he heard a car pull up in the drive. "Gotta go."

"Remember, back by no later than eleven," Mom said. "See you later. Say hi to Mandy and Anne for me."

His anxiety returned as he went outside to find the other couple in the car already, along with Mandy and her mother. He climbed into the back and did his best to squinch into the corner.

"Hi Jason," Mandy said, smiling. "Guys, this is my good friend Jason Goldman. Jason, this is Jen Kelly and Paul Frownfelter."

Jason nodded at them. Jen gave him a lazy smile. "You're cute," she said. Jason felt his face heat up. Paul looked a little annoyed, but said nothing. Mandy glanced at Jason, frowning a little.

"We're going to that Asian place next to the movie theater," she said. Jason sighed silently. He was not a fan of Chinese food, but he'd do the best he could.

"Okay," he said.

"So you do talk," Jen said. Jason gave her a startled look. "I'm in your English class. You never say anything."

He didn't know how to reply. "Sorry," he said at last. Jen chuckled.

"It's okay," she said. She had a wide mouth, with big soft lips that curved like a bow. Paul turned his head away, but not before Jason caught a glimpse of him rolling his eyes.

"Jason's better at math," Mandy said. There was an odd edge to her words. Jason didn't look at her. He felt anxious now, unsure of what to say, what to do that wouldn't get him into trouble.

"You've been helping Mandy with her math homework all summer," Mrs. Faust said. She smiled at Jason in the rear view mirror. To his surprise she gave him a slight wink, her pretty eyes twinkling. "It's made a big difference."

"You're a tutor?" Paul wanted to know. Curiosity warred with disbelief in his words.

"Yes," Mandy said. "He is." It wasn't quite defiance, but her pride was evident. "He's a good teacher. I understand a lot more."

Jen turned her smile on Mandy. To Jason, it was as if she used it as a weapon. "You're smarter than almost anyone else in the school. Smart enough to get a cute guy to give you private lessons."

Jason swallowed as his face got even hotter. To his astonishment Mandy returned Jen's smile.

"Yeah, well," she said. Jen chuckled again. Paul looked disgusted.

They arrived at the restaurant a short time later. "I'll pick you up at the theater at ten thirty," Mrs. Faust said. "Have fun!"

Jason just barely remembered to let Mandy into the booth first. He slid in next to her and took a quick look around as he removed his jacket. The place was fairly busy—not as much as Poppi's place, but the wait staff wasn't goofing off. He took a sort of semi-professional interest in what they wore and how they did their work.

"Hey," Jen said. "Checkin' out the servers?" She sat across from him, directly in his line of vision.

"I work in a restaurant," he said.

"Lou's, right?" Paul said, but he sounded interested this time. "What do you do?"

"Mostly prep work. But I bus tables and wait sometimes." Jason almost sighed with relief when a server came to the table and handed out menus, then took their drinks order. After she left Mandy put down her menu. It was clear she'd already made up her mind.

"Not a salad," Jen said, her tone teasing and yet somehow serious. Mandy picked up a lemon wedge and squeezed it into her iced tea.

"No," she said. "I can have other stuff sometimes. They make really good Hunan chicken here." She picked up her spoon and stirred her tea. "The beef lo mein is great too."

Jason stared down at the listings. He didn't know what half of them were; the pressure to choose was overwhelming. He stalled for time with a large swallow of Coke.

"The shrimp isn't bad," Paul said. "I suppose you're gonna do the fake chicken." This last remark was addressed to Jen.

"No," she said airily. "I'm gonna try something different." She darted a glance at Jason, then down at the menu. "Happy Family."

"It's all seafood and carbs," Paul pointed out.

"If I don't like it someone else can eat it." Jen shoved the menu away. She picked up her straw and peeled the paper down, her eyes on the task at hand. Jason suddenly had a strong and very unwelcome memory of his mother sitting at the kitchen table doing something similar with a banana. He sat up a bit and looked away, aware that Mandy watched him out of the corner of her eye.

The server came back at that point and took their order. That meant they had another fifteen minutes or so to kill before their food came out. Jason looked around once more, but there was no arcade. Paul had already pulled out his phone and was busy texting.

"Telling your mom all about us," Jen said. Her tone was less than friendly.

"No," Paul said. He shot Mandy a look. "Did you finish the revision on that story we worked on today?"

"Of course." Mandy stared down at the tabletop. Jason realized she was upset and trying not to show it.

"What story?" he asked.

"As assignment," Paul said. He didn't look up from the phone.

"What's it about?" Jason directed the question at Mandy. She relaxed a bit. Before she could answer Jen spoke.

"Who cares? It's just an assignment, no big deal." She leaned in toward Jason a bit. "I'd rather hear about what you're doing."

Once again Jason was reminded of his mother. Jen made his skin crawl. "It's a big deal to me," he said quietly. "Mandy is my friend. She's also a good writer. I'm interested in what she's working on."

That made Paul pause. He shot another look at Mandy, then at Jason. After a moment he said "We're doing a genre assignment. We chose horror."

"It's almost Halloween so we wanted to write a short story," Mandy said, and that began the discussion. Jason said nothing more, just sat and listened as the others talked about their work. Even Jen joined in, though she sulked at first and pretended she wasn't interested. Gradually she warmed up and showed what Jason thought was genuine enthusiasm. He liked her a little better after that. For some reason she thought she had to be provocative, but it was an act, not her true nature. He understood that to some extent, and still wished she'd stop it. It was not attractive, at least to him.

Their food came, and the talk about writing continued as they ate. Things were more relaxed now; even Paul showed some signs of being friendly. Jason worked on his pork fried rice and egg rolls and said little, but he paid attention to the conversation, noting the ebb and flow, the way they all sparked off each other, how they joked around. They really were friends despite the friction between them.

After they'd finished and paid for their meal they went over to the theater. Paul and Jen walked ahead, still talking about the assignment. Mandy reached out, took Jason's hand in hers. She gave it a little squeeze, then let go.

In the theater Jason found himself sandwiched between Mandy and Jen, with Paul sitting next to Mandy. Jason wasn't sure how he felt about this arrangement, but before he could get up to trade places with Paul, Jen plunked the tub of popcorn in his lap. "Just relax," she whispered. Jason froze. He could almost feel his mother's lips touching his ear as she said the same words; he was glad he hadn't eaten much at the restaurant, because now his stomach was roiling.

They sat through previews without saying much. Every now and then Jen put her hand in the popcorn bucket, and every time she did, it pushed down on Jason's thighs. He knew she was doing it on purpose, but he also knew she was looking for a reaction. He wasn't about to encourage her, so he just endured it in silence and kept his focus on the screen.

About a third of the way into the movie, Mandy's hand found his once more. Her fingers clasped his gently. She didn't push her touch on him, just offered it. Jason took an odd sort of comfort in the simple gesture. For the rest of the movie he divided his attention between that warm touch, and the story unfolding before them. Now and then Jen leaned in to whisper something to him, but he ignored her as much as he could.

It was cold when they emerged from the theater. Mandy stayed close to him, her shoulder brushing his. Paul had his attention on his phone; Jen looked sullen, her pretty face scrunched into a frown.

Mrs. Faust was waiting for them, the car pulled up to the curb with drifts of people walking by, illuminated briefly by the headlight beams.

"How was the movie?" she wanted to know.

"It was okay," Paul said, to Jason's surprise. "I might see it again. The story was well written."

"I liked it," Mandy said. "Not bad."

"Yeah," Jason said, though he couldn't recall a single moment of the story. "Not bad." Jen said nothing, but her loud, exaggerated sigh spoke volumes.

They dropped off Paul and Jen first. Once Jen was out of the car and they were on their way, Mandy said "I don't know why she was flirting with you like that. She's not—she's never done anything like that before."

"It's okay," Jason said.

"She upset you."

He didn't know what to say, so he stayed silent. Mandy sighed softly.

"I'm sorry. This was supposed to be fun."

"I had a good time," Jason said. It was a half-lie; better than telling the entire truth and hurting Mandy deeply. "The way she acted isn't your fault." He hesitated. "I enjoyed going out with you."

Now it was Mandy's turn to fall silent. When she did speak, her voice was very quiet. "Thanks."

The kitchen was deserted when he came in through the back door. A light had been left on for him, a small gesture that eased his anxiety. He went to the fridge, took out the milk, and downed several swallows straight from the jug, enjoying the cold, rich taste. As he stood there he heard music coming in faintly from the living room—it was Dad. Jason put the milk away, closed the fridge door and moved through the kitchen in silence, to stand in the shadows by the dining room table.

Mom and Dad sat in the living room; the bright, flickering light of a good fire played over them. Mom lay stretched out on the couch, and Dad sat on the floor close by. He had the Martin six-string cradled in his hands, easing music out of it in gentle chords as he sang in his warm, resonant baritone. Mom had a hand on Dad's shoulder, rubbing it in slow circles as she listened.

_she comes down from Yellow Mountain_

_on a dark flat land she rides_

_on a pony she named Wildfire, with a whirlwind by her side_

_on a cold Nebraska night_

Jason watched them, aware of an odd ache in his chest. He knew Mom had endured years of abuse much like the kind to which his own mother had subjected him, and yet she'd married Dad, made a life with him.

_oh they say she died one winter_

_when there came a killing frost_

_and the pony she named Wildfire busted down his stall_

_in a blizzard she was lost_

_she ran callin' Wildfire . . . _

He knew his parents liked sex. He'd seen them go hand in hand up the stairs at night, had seen them come down in the morning with that quiet glow of physical satisfaction around them; it was in the way they touched each other, the look in their eyes, the sound of their voices. What he didn't understand was how Mom accepted it, even sought it out.

_by the dark of the moon I planted_

_but there came an early snow_

_there's been a hoot owl howlin' outside my window now_

'_bout six nights in a row_

_she's coming for me I know_

_and on Wildfire we're both gonna go_

He'd talked about his mother's abuse with his counselor, a little at least. But he'd only offered a few facts, the minimum amount required to satisfy the counselor's questions. He'd never said anything to anyone about the truth he could barely admit to himself . . . when his mother had used him, as much as he'd hated it, sometimes it had felt really good. And he hated that too, because he knew it was wrong somehow.

_on Wildfire we're gonna ride_

_gonna leave sod-bustin' behind_

_get these hard times right out of our minds_

_riding Wildfire . . . _

There was an answer here somewhere, but without breaking the silence forced on him by his mother and his own shame and guilt, he wouldn't be able to find it. And he wasn't ready, he knew that much. He'd have to talk about it, but not yet. Soon, though . . . He took a breath and made himself move forward, into the light.

_'Wildfire', Michael Martin Murphy_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome._**


	11. Chapter 11

_(Apologies for a short chapter and for posting late. I didn't get any writing time last week at all, having spent it with friends and also going to see Hugh and the Copper Bottom Band in concert. I will try to post an extra chapter this week to compensate. -B)_

_November 1st_

_7 p.m._

_Dear Sydney,_

_a happy Day of the Dead to you. Do you celebrate in the otherworld? I've always been curious about that. Seems like holidays wouldn't mean much to dead people. Then again, maybe it's all you have left of life besides haunting houses and scaring people in their beds at night__._

Sarah took a sip of tea and listened to the quiet house around her. Gene was down at the barn rehearsing with the Flatliners for the Christmas and New Year's dances coming up all too soon; Jason was at work until ten. She had the place to herself. Actually it felt good to be alone for a little while. She reached out, picked up her cup of tea and sipped, savoring the astringent flavor while she listened to Lightnin' Hopkins singing about New Orleans.

_Life is full of change at the moment here. My husband is dealing with old trauma from his days in the military. Our son is dealing with old trauma inflicted by his biological parents. I'm actually talking with one of my brothers for the first time in many years. Not trauma exactly . . . _

Sarah paused. _Okay, that's not true. He's dying, Sydney._ She wasn't surprised to find tears in her eyes. _I'm torn up inside over losing him, and I'm also furious that it took the end of his days for us to be able to say finally that we still love each other. Things aren't easy between us yet, but we're better than we were._

Unable to sit any longer, she got up and went to the window. It was dark already, but by the faint glow of the back door light she could see piles of leaves stirring in the cold wind. A sudden sense of ending came over her. She glanced at the phone, went to it and took the handset from the receiver. Without allowing herself to think about what she was doing, she dialed Ben's number.

The nurse who answered sounded cheerful. "He's awake," she said. "Hang on, I'll see if he wants to talk."

A few moments later Ben's rough voice came on the line. "Hey Sare."

"Hey," she said, and sat down. "How are you?"

"Not bad." The strain in his words told their own story of little relief from the growing pain. "How about you and your family?"

"I'm here by myself tonight. Gene's off at a band rehearsal and Jason's working."

"Your man plays music?" She heard the perk of interest.

"Yeah, guitar. He and some other guys here have a garage band." She took a chance. "I'll send you some tracks from their last dance, they're pretty decent."

"Yeah, okay. I'd like that." Ben sounded a little more relaxed. "Jason, he's got a job—that's good. Savin' up his money for school?"

"Some of it." Sarah couldn't help but smile. "Some is for his social life."

"Kid's datin' already?" Ben chuckled. "Bet he's got 'em climbin' all over him, he's a good-lookin' boy."

"Thanks. There's a girl he's known for a while, they've been friends since he started living with us." Sarah smiled a little. "They've both got a thing goin', but they haven't quite figured it out yet."

"They'll get there." Ben sighed softly. "You got yourself a good man, Sare. I'm glad."

"Yeah, he is." She hesitated. "You never found anyone?"

"I did, once. It was a while back. I was tryin' to get it together, but it didn't work out." He fell silent for a few moments. "She was better than I deserved."

"Does she know you're sick?" Sarah asked gently, not wanting to re-awaken painful memories.

"Got no idea. She took off and it was the right thing to do." Ben made a noise something like a groan. "I was startin' to smack her around the way Dad did with us. She didn't want no part of it and told me so. When I didn't stop . . ." He sighed again. "Sare, I'm sorry. I hurt you too."

"Yeah, you did." Now the tears fell, slow and salty. "You did."

They didn't say anything for a long time. Then Ben spoke again. "If I could take it all back I would. You were a good sister."

"Well, I tried." Sarah wiped her face with the back of her hand. "Doesn't matter."

"Yeah it does." There was a murmur of voices. "They're gonna do my bath now."

"Are they—are they takin' good care of you?" She couldn't quite keep her voice steady. Ben didn't answer right away.

"Yeah." He was so quiet she could barely hear him. "Thanks for askin', sis."

"Of course I'm gonna ask, you big dummy."

He laughed a little. "Haven't heard you call me that in years."

"It still suits you." Sarah closed her eyes on a wave of sorrow. "I'll let you go. Call any time, okay? Any time."

"I will." He hesitated again. "Love you, Sare."

"Love you too," she said, and it was the simple truth. "Talk to you soon."

After the call ended she went out into the living room. The fire was burning low and the air was chilly. She put on another log and stirred up the coals, then sat to watch the wood catch and send out a wave of delicious warmth. She held out her hands to the heat and light, and thought about Ben. He sounded somewhat better than he had when they'd first started communicating. He was more open, more willing to share what he was thinking and feeling. But she knew he'd probably come as far as he could, given the damage done over the years. She longed for more closeness even as she understood it wasn't possible.

Slowly she sank back and let the memories flow in: Ben curled up next to her with his thumb in his mouth, one eye bruised shut; teaching him to climb up on a horse, his round little face bright with rare happiness and delight; the first time he hit her, her surprise and pain mirrored in his own features; seeing him in prison, those green-grey eyes so much like hers, full of anger and even worse, confusion. In a way she was glad she didn't have to face him now. She could tell by the tone in his voice that he was struggling to carry on a normal conversation, and it didn't have anything to do with the emotional content or subject matter; just talking was getting hard. _We'll have to do more vids _was her last thought, right before sleep claimed her.

She woke to a kiss and couldn't help but smile.

"Hey," Gene said against her mouth. "You okay?"

"You two are _nauseating_," a familiar voice said loudly, right behind Gene. "Could you at least hold off until I leave?"

Sarah opened her eyes and smiled at her husband, and then her oldest boy. "There's cake in the fridge, if that makes life any easier," she said, and watched as Greg loped away into the kitchen. Gene leaned in and kissed her again.

"Hello, already nauseous here!" Greg yelled. Sarah laughed and felt her sadness lift. It would come back, but now she had a little more perspective.

"You okay?" Gene wanted to know.

"For now," she said. "We can talk later, if that's okay."

"Yup." He nuzzled her. She smelled barn dust, a hint of beer and his own scent, warm and musky.

"How'd practice go?"

"Not bad. Added some new songs. You want to sing again this year?" Gene tucked a curl behind her ear. "It's sort of a tradition now. We could record it for Ben."

Her heart gave a little lift of excitement and anxiety. "Yeah."

"Okay, done." Gene gave her a final kiss as Greg came in with an enormous wedge of chocolate cake. He sat down in the easy chair he'd claimed long ago.

"She gonna sing?" he demanded. Gene nodded. Greg dug out a huge bite of cake and stuffed it into his mouth, jaws working as he chewed and swallowed. Sarah shook her head.

"Like a snake with a rat," she said as she always did. "I know Roz feeds you."

"Issa compliment," Greg said through a mouthful of cake. He paused and stared at her. "Wha's wrong?"

"Nothing. Talked to Ben. I'm just sad." She leaned back into the cushions. Gene stroked her cheek.

"We'll record things," he said again. "Why don't we vid some things tomorrow, just to send to him? He'd enjoy it."

Sarah nodded. "'kay," she said, and felt tiredness tug at her.

"That's it. Off to bed," Gene said. "I'll pick Jason up from work. You've done enough for one day."

Greg held up his fork and licked frosting from the tines. "You've got him well-trained."

Sarah ignored Greg. "I can go."

"Adding a guilt trip. Even better." Greg excavated another chunk of cake. "Better get a move on, or the kid will turn into a pumpkin risotto."

"I'll go," Gene said again. He brushed a kiss over Sarah's lips. "Decide what you'd like to vid tomorrow and we'll send it. Back in a few." He kissed the end of her nose. "Go to bed."

"You heard him," Greg said as Gene headed for the back door. "I'll make sure the house doesn't walk off. Get going."

Sarah gave him a wry look, but she got to her feet, then came to him. Without a word she bent down and kissed his cheek. "Thanks," she said softly, and smiled at him. Greg rolled his eyes, but she saw a dimple deepen in his cheek.

She spent a few minutes in the office, then went upstairs and eventually climbed into bed. She fell asleep a short time later, too tired to think about anything except the comfort of clean sheets and a warm room, and the anticipation of waking up with her husband in the morning.

_Whatever happens in the next few months, we'll do our best to deal with the situation and each other. I'll give Ben whatever he'll allow, and call it good. This effort is for him for the most part, after all. My turn will come after he's gone. _

_Okay, Sydney. That's it this time around. Say hello to the colleagues for me. If anyone wants to offer any pearls of wisdom, I'm more than happy to accept them._

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome._**


	12. Chapter 12

**_(This chapter is dedicated to my friend and fellow fic writer anon004. Enjoy and happy birthday! -B)_**

_November 11th_

_5:45 p.m._

Greg lopes up to the back steps and pauses to stretch his legs one last time, giving his hamstrings a chance to loosen up a bit more. The day's light is long gone, but the back door window is bright; he can hear the radio too, tuned to NPR and the news. He savors the feel of anticipation, and the uncomfortable but familiar sensation of sweat chilling on his heated flesh. It was a good run, five miles this time—pushing it a bit, but nothing he can't handle as long as he's careful to warm up and cool down for extended periods before and after.

His muscles are as loose and relaxed as they'll ever be, so he opens the door and goes inside, to be greeted by a wave of warmth and the glad smell of dinner cooking in the oven—meat loaf, probably. Roz stands at the stove, enveloped in a white apron. She's lifting the lid on what appears to be a vegetable of some kind. As he comes in she glances his way and smiles.

"How'd it go?" she asks.

"Still in one piece." He sidles over to the cookie jar, only to have Roz move in front of it.

"Uh uh. Everything's just about ready. By the time you take your shower and put on clean clothes, supper will be on the table."

"You're so mean," he whines, and leans in to steal a kiss. Her lips are warm and soft against his. He tries to reach behind her, only to have his hand taken in hers and returned to his side.

"Cookies later," she says, and gives him another kiss.

So he slouches off to take a long hot shower, luxuriating in the steamy warmth. Eventually he shuts it down, hops out and grabs a towel, buffs off excess water and epithelial cells, slaps on some deodorant since it's a special occasion for two good reasons, combs his fingers through what's left of his hair, and heads into the bedroom to find something to wear. Tonight is the Flatliners' first full rehearsal for the holiday shows coming up in a few weeks and he's ready, he's got the song lists in his head and he's itching to practice.

Roz comes in just as he pulls a tee shirt over his head. "You took that out of the dirty laundry," she says.

"So what?" He lifts the front and gives it an ostentatious sniff. "Smells okay."

His wife rolls her eyes. "It looks like it came out of the hamper."

"Again, so what?"

For answer she goes over to the chest of drawers and extracts a shirt. It's one of his favorites, something he saves for special occasions—black patterned with abstract skulls and bones in varying shades of blue. "Wear this. It looks good on you." She walks over, hands it to him and takes a kiss while she's there. She smells of basil and flowers and herself, a potent mix. "I like you looking good," she says against his lips, and the temptation to abandon the rehearsal for an evening in bed ravishing his woman is overwhelming. Her kiss is sweet and fiery and all hers, her passion banked but still on offer, until she gives him a gentle push.

"Let's eat."

It doesn't take long for him to demolish two thick slabs of her excellent meat loaf, along with mashed potatoes and beans done Italian style. When she takes his plate he cups her butt and she dodges away.

"Get going or you'll be late for rehearsal," she says, and a laugh trembles in her words. "We'll see each other later. If you don't come back at a decent hour I'll be looking for you, mister." Her eyes are green as a cat's, full of amusement and a tender love that he still can't quite believe is all for him.

"Come with me," he says, as if on impulse. Roz's smile fades a bit, but the light in her eyes grows.

"Really?" She looks pleased. Greg winces inwardly at her surprise. "Well . . . okay. Give me a minute."

While he puts on the tee shirt she chose and a clean pair of jeans, his favorite broken-in sneaks and pea coat, she makes herself ready. When he meets with her at the door she's bundled up in her down jacket, a knit cap covering her thick hair. She also wears her latest purchase, a wickedly cool pair of chunky rawhide boots. He hoists the light casual-practice keyboard under his arm, and they head off for the barn.

It's a cold night with a clear sky full of stars high above, twinkling among the bare tree branches. He feels content, at peace with the world—not a state of mind with which he's had much acquaintance, but tonight it feels right, and earned for once. The leg aches a little but then the rest of him does too. It's a good sensation, something he never thought to know again. He blows out a breath and fights a smile.

"What are you thinking about?" Roz asks. He glances at her. She walks along beside him, her gloved hand tucked in the crook of his arm. In the other hand she holds the flashlight they use for nighttime walks down the lane.

"Later," he says, to see her reaction. She moves a little closer, and gives him a caress.

"Me too," she says, and the happy note in her voice surprises him again, only this time he feels good, not anxious.

"Yeah?" He can't help but question her.

"Yeah," she says—and just that fast a song pops into his head. He chuckles out loud.

"I know that laugh. You're up to something." Roz doesn't sound worried, though. She leans in to kiss his cheek. They continue down the lane in outward silence, but the song playing in Greg's head makes his smile finally come out into the open.

Gene is already in residence at the barn, with Jason at his side. He's got both the heater and the wood stove going and is setting up amps and chairs. As Greg and Roz come in he looks over and nods. Jason gives them a sidelong glance as he's putting together his sax, but says nothing.

"Gunney," Greg says, and hauls the keyboard to the spot closest to the cube fridge. He sets it up, removes a beer from the fridge, pops the top and indulges in a long swallow, savoring the crisp bitter flavor. Roz takes off her jacket to reveal a sleek, tobacco-brown cable-knit tunic that makes the most of her scant curves, and a pair of black leggings. Jason's eyes widen before he turns away. Greg doesn't blame him—she looks fantastic, elegant and sexy and far too cool for this modest setting. And she's all his, too. A sense of smug male pride settles over him.

"Don't hog the beer," Gene says, and offers a slight grin. He looks a little better than he has for the last few weeks; he's lost weight, his lean features more hawklike than ever, but there's a peace that was missing before. Greg salutes him with the beer.

Within another fifteen minutes everyone's in attendance—Jay perched on a chair with bass ready to go, Singh behind the drums adjusting the high hats, Jason blowing warm breath quietly through his instrument, Gene on a stool with guitar in hand, strumming a few test chords. Greg finishes off the beer, checks to make sure the keyboard volume is adjusted properly, and gives in to impulse.

"Before we start the list, I've got another song for New Year's." He takes a quick breath. "Let's do 'Yeh Yeh'."

The reaction from the band is predictable. Gene's face brightens and he nods. Jay and Singh have to think about it, but they catch up and agree too with enthusiasm. Only Jason is clueless. He clutches his sax and looks confused. Greg takes pity on him.

"We'll play it for the kid," he says. "In G. I'll start us off."

He gives them a full intro, then pulls some form of the lyrics out of the recesses of his brain.

_well in the evenin' when all my day's work is through_

_I call my baby and ask her what shall we do_

_I mention movies but she don't seem to dig that_

_and so she asks me why don't I come to her flat_

They're barely into the song and already the kid is hopping to the beat, his head bobbing slightly, eyes closed as he listens. His fingers are moving on the pads, figuring out notes. Roz likes it; her slender bottom sways as she puts splits in the wood stove. These are both excellent signs. Greg suppresses a grin and keeps going.

_and have some supper and let the evening pass by_

_by playing records on a groovy hi-fi_

_I say 'yeh yeh' that's what I say I say 'yeh yeh'_

Gene shoots him an amused look, his smile widening slowly. He starts to swing his hips too, just a subtle movement, but within a few notes both Singh and Jay broaden the beat, making it a bit less rock and a touch more bossa nova; the song is Latin soul at its heart, after all. Greg switches the mode from 'electric piano' to 'Hammond organ' and just that fast, they could be in a little 60s cellar nightclub. Greg half-expects a waitress wearing a plastic minidress with matching go-go boots, a beehive hairdo, and oodles of Yardley mascara supplementing her fake eyelashes to glide by—but they have Roz instead, who is grooving to the sound with an instinctive dancer's grace, her long legs moving effortlessly to the beat.

_my baby loves me she gets me feelin' so fine_

_my baby loves me she lets me know that she's mine_

_and when she kisses I feel the fire get hot_

_she never misses she gives it all that she's got_

_and when she asks me if everything is okay_

_I have my answer the only thing I can say_

_I say 'yeh yeh' that's what I say I say 'yeh yeh' _

Now they're all into it. Singh has a solid, steady beat, Jay's laying down the syncopated bass line, Gene's got the rhythm cooking, and Greg is surprised to find the words right there, ready to fall from his lips as if he's been singing it every day of his life.

_we'll play a melody and turn the lights down low_

_so no one can see_

_(we gotta do that we gotta do that_

_we gotta do that we gotta do that)_

_and there'll be no one else alive in all the world_

'_cept you and me_

_yeh yeh _

By now the place is rockin'. It's plain everyone likes this, he's made a good choice. What the rest of them don't know is this is purely for his wife. It is his tribute to her. And she gets it, if her glimmering white smile aimed at him when she straightens is anything to go by. She thinks this is her birthday present. Well, it is—in part, anyway.

_well pretty baby I never knew such a thrill_

_just thought I'd tell you because I'm tremblin'still_

_well pretty baby I want you all for my own_

_I think I'm ready to leave those others alone_

_no need to ask me if everything is okay_

_I have my answer the only thing I can say_

_I say 'yeh yeh' that's what I say I say 'yeh yeh'_

_that's what I say I say 'yeh yeh'_

He's no great shakes as a singer, never has been, but he can hit pitch and sell the sentiment when he needs to. At the moment however it's easier than it's ever been, because his heart (and his lust) is solidly behind every single word.

_we'll play a melody and turn the lights down low_

_so no one can see_

_(we gotta do that we gotta do that_

_we gotta do that we gotta do that)_

_and there'll be no one else alive in all the world_

'_cept you and me_

_yeh yeh_

Jason's got the melody line down now, playing along with them softly. In the past six months the kid's grown by leaps and bounds as a musician. He's got the fire, the need to get inside the tune and make it his, then share it with everyone else. By the time they get to the end of the song the boy will be able to add a solo break on the next time through—it'll be a simple one, but he'll have it worked out.

_well pretty baby I never knew such a thrill_

_just thought I'd tell you because I'm tremblin'still_

_well pretty baby I want you all for my own_

_just thought I'd tell you leave those others alone_

_no need to ask me if everything is okay_

_I have my answer the only thing I can say_

_I say 'yeh yeh' that's what I say I say 'yeh yeh'_

_that's what I say I say 'yeh yeh'_

They end big, banging the final chord hard just because they can, and Roz cheers, clapping. "That's _fantastic!_ You have to do it for New Year's! Play it again!"

So they do, swinging it for all it's worth this time, and this time sure enough, the kid manages a solo in the open break they give him by tacit consent, after the first bridge. It's better than it should be because it's heartfelt and played with enthusiasm. He honks twice, but no one cares. By the time they're ready to play on New Year's Eve he'll have it perfected. Hell, he'll probably have it ready an hour from now. Roz dances through the second run as well, immersed in the music with that beatific expression Greg knows means she completely loves what she's hearing.

"You're gonna bring the house down," she says at the end of the second run-through. "Guaranteed. Be ready to play it more than once."

The rest of the rehearsal goes well too; it's plain both the Christmas and New Year's bashes will be crowd pleasers. There's an odd sense of satisfaction in knowing people will truly enjoy the band's music. They have a long and varied list of songs for both occasions; during tonight's rehearsal they work on the newer charts Greg and Gene dug out of obscure albums and various online searches over the course of the summer. There will be some old favorites of course, and carols for the sing-along; still, they've tried to find some unique stuff to scatter in with the familiar oldies for both holidays.

They are near the end of the rehearsal when they hear Minnie Lou pull up. A few minutes later Sarah comes in. She has a big covered container in her hands. She sets it on a sawhorse, walks over to Roz and gives her a hug. "Happy birthday!" she says, and that's the signal for the celebration to begin.

The container holds a sheet cake from Rick's, and there are candles of course, along with paper plates and forks, some ginger ale and a couple of wrapped boxes. While Sarah lights the candles the band plays 'Happy Birthday' and Jay sings the words, grinning at his cousin. The expression on Roz's face is priceless. She looks about five years old, her eyes shining with delight. Greg knows she had precious few celebrations like this during her childhood, at least not until she lived with Lou and Nana; it still causes a secret ache deep inside him when she shows so much happiness at such a simple thing as a birthday celebration.

Gene puts on Sam Cooke while the cake is distributed and Roz is given her presents. The first box holds a muffler, cap and mittens, all hand-knitted in variegated-green alpaca yarn, soft and lustrous. Greg knows Sarah commissioned them from Marti Butterman, a knitter renowned for her skill in the village. Roz will wear it all home, that much is obvious.

The second box contains several books of poetry—Heaney, Sexton, Rossetti, and a compilation. Roz holds them with a respectful touch. "Thank you," she says, and flashes them all a smile, her dark features bright with joy. "Thank you so much."

So they munch chocolate cake and chat while Roz ends up dancing with Jason to 'Twistin' the Night Away', one of the songs on the New Year's list. Singh joins them, saying something to make Jason grin, a rare sight. Sarah slips outside, to return with a shopping bag. She moves quietly to Greg's side and sets the bag by the bed.

"There's everything you need. I put clean sheets on the bed too," she says, and rests her hand on his shoulder for a moment. "Have fun tonight."

"_Mom_," he growls, enjoying her attention. "Parental permission ruins the atmosphere, you know."

Sarah just laughs and gives him a gentle pat. "Have fun," she says again, then joins the dancers.

Eventually however, the others leave one by one with final birthday wishes. Quiet descends on the old barn. It's warm now, with just the light from the wood stove and an oil lamp on the stand by the bed.

"We're staying here tonight?" Roz says. She's surprised but not upset, in fact she looks immensely pleased. For answer Greg opens the shopping bag and brings out a bottle of wine and the corkscrew extractor.

"You do the honors," he says, and offers them to her. She looks at his hands, then up at him. Without a word she takes both items and goes to work on the cork while he brings out the glasses. There's crackers and cheese too, and the last of the fresh pears from Annie's orchards, a little soft now but still delicious., and Italian chocolates.

They have a makeshift picnic on the bed while music plays softly in the background—Sergio Mendes and Brazil '65, one of her personal favorites. Roz nibbles a cracker and takes a sip of wine. "Mmm . . ." She savors it, her eyes closed, and Greg sees the way her long dark lashes lie on her cheek, a little detail of which he never tires. "Nice _asti_."

He holds out his glass and clinks it with hers. She smiles at him, then offers her wine to him. He looks at her for a long moment, enjoying the way her eyes change color to that deep moss-green he secretly treasures. Then he leans in and sips from the glass. The wine is delicious, but not as fine as she is.

Eventually they set everything on the stand and lie down together, facing each other.

"This is like a really great first date," Roz says, smiling. She puts her hand to his face, strokes it gently. "Wanna make out?"

He turns his head and kisses her palm, feels her draw in a breath, and just that fast the emotion changes to urgency, a need for skin on skin. He moves close, tugs gently at her sweater, and that starts the delicious process of removing clothing bit by bit as they kiss and caress each other, their breaths mingling as the music plays soft and low in the background, flute and guitar creating a gentle samba.

Soon enough she lies beside him naked, her slender body gilded in the soft, flickering light. Greg runs a hand over her arm, feels gooseflesh rise. Without a word he gets up to move the covers back, but when he starts to climb in Roz says "Wait." She looks at him, taking him in. He fidgets, uncomfortable under her steady gaze.

"What?" he says finally, unable to stand her scrutiny any longer. "Is my nose hair too long or something?"

"Shut up," she says, but she's smiling when she says it. "I just like looking at you."

There is nothing he can say to that, so he just stands there and feels about as old as Jason, and just as gauche. Roz's smile widens a little. "I love it when you blush," she says. He rolls his eyes. "Okay, come on in."

He obeys with alacrity, sliding under the cool sheets. This has the effect of dampening his incipient erection, but only for a few moments. Roz's warm body brings everything back to life. She eases him into her arms, holding him close with an eagerness he always finds surprising and somehow necessary now; they kiss, breathing in the scent of each other, familiar and exciting at the same time. When she opens to him he doesn't hesitate. Their joining is easy and yet powerful; they move together, slow, steady, her soft sighs a sweet accompaniment to the music drifting slowly through the quiet air.

They are lying arm in arm, bodies pressed close in the mutual enjoyment of afterglow, when she says softly "You do that for me, you know."

"Mmm . . . do what?" he says, drowsy and sated. Normally he avoids intimate conversations like this one as if they carry the plague, but his wife doesn't use after-sex moments to destroy his trust; quite the opposite, in fact. He waits to hear what she has to say.

"You love me right." She quotes the song currently playing as she nuzzles him, her breath warm on his skin. "I hope I do that for you too, _amante_."

He really doesn't know what to say in response, so as usual he takes refuge in mockery. He makes sure to pull his punches though; it is her birthday, after all. "No complaints about your samba moves."

"Good." He feels her lips curve in a smile. "I can say the same thing, you know."

"Huh," he scoffs. "Not picky, are you?"

He feels her tense, and then she sits up. "Why do you do that?" she wants to know. "Why do you put yourself down?"

He stares at her, surprised by her vehemence. Roz stares back at him, her smile gone. She's not mad, but . . . 'exasperation' might be a good word to use. Greg swallows on a throat gone dry suddenly. _Fucking this up_, he thinks, fear rising inside him. _Dammit, I'm fucking this up!_

"No, you _aren't _fucking this up," she says with that uncanny way she has of knowing exactly what he's thinking at times. "I just don't like someone talking trash about my man, especially if he's the one doing it." She lies down next to him again. He doesn't say anything, afraid he'll make things worse. Roz puts her hand to his cheek, turns his head so he's facing her. "You don't have to say something bad before I beat you to it," she says, and kisses him. Not a pity kiss either; it lets him know she finds him desirable, and wants to be exactly where she is. The fear abates a little.

"You chose me," she says after a while. "You didn't have to do that. When we met we didn't like each other much, but you got to know me, and then you let me know you. No man ever did that for me before, no one ever wanted to."

Greg hesitates. There's something he's wanted to know about for some time. "Your grandfather said there was someone before me. Not Rick—he said it was some _buffone_ who hurt you."

Roz sighs softly, but she doesn't hesitate, and Greg's apprehension fades a little more. "There was a guy in Buffalo, at the trade school." Her soft, dark voice holds no emotion now. "He . . . he hit on me. I didn't know what he was doing until long after he left, because no one ever . . . ever even wanted to date me, much less mess around. Someone told me he'd bragged about how easy it was to get what he wanted. He chased after me until I went out with him . . ." She rests her cheek against his chest. "But the whole time I never knew who he really was, and he never wanted to know anything about me. The only intimate detail he ever learned was that I was a virgin."

The unspoken pain in her words leaves him in shreds. He can't stand the knowledge that someone deliberately hurt her in such a terrible way. So, he hurts her. "You're an idiot," he says harshly.

"Yeah," she says, surprising him. "I am. But you know it and you still stay with me anyway. I know you don't suffer fools gladly. That means a lot."

Where to start with _that_ statement? As always he feels totally inadequate in personal areas. "_No_. I mean . . . oh balls," he groans, "this is a mess." And to his astonishment, she starts to laugh.

"God, I love you," she says, and she kisses him again.

"I don't understand," he ventures to say when the kiss is done.

"Neither do I, but we'll figure it out later. Right now it's still my birthday and I say we share a piece of cake and finish off the wine before we add some wood to the stove." She pauses. "And I get a song."

She really isn't mad at him, and he didn't fuck it up. Relief floods through him like a tidal wave. "Oh you do, do you?"

"Yes, I do. You choose. Just play for me." She kisses him on the lips. "Please," she whispers, and he is not proof against her simple request.

He does everything she asks, and then wraps himself in the extra blanket to sit at the keyboard. When the song comes into his head he begins to play, and feels the music settle around them, sweet and sad, and exactly right.

_just a perfect day_

_drink sangria in the park_

_and then later_

_when it gets dark, we go home_

Roz sits with glass of _asti_ in hand, her features bright and dark as she listens.

_just a perfect day _

_problems all left alone_

_weekenders on our own_

_it's such fun_

_just a perfect day_

_you made me forget myself_

_I thought I was someone else_

_someone good_

_oh it's such a perfect day_

_I'm glad I spent it with you_

_it's such a perfect day_

_you just keep me hanging on_

When it's done he switches off the keyboard, takes the small velvet box from its hiding place in his coat pocket, and sits on the bed next to Roz. He offers her the box. She sets her wine glass aside and takes it, opens it with care. Inside is a dragonfly—or to be more accurate, a pin shaped like a dragonfly. It's made of anodized metal, iridescent, light as a feather. The wings are filled with delicate spirals and circles. The moment he'd seen it online, he'd known it was hers.

Roz takes the little pin with gentle fingers. She looks up at him. Her eyes hold tears, but she's smiling. Without a word she puts the pin back in its box, sets it on the stand with care, then moves the covers so he can slip into bed with her. When he does she puts her arms around him and brings him close without a word; she holds him as if he's something to cherish. They fall asleep that way, facing each other, his cheek against her forehead.

In the morning when they walk back to the house, the dragonfly pin is perched in pride of place atop her new cap like some last moment of summertime, fragile and bright in the weak sunshine.

'_Yeh Yeh', Georgy Fame and the Blue Flames (the version most people know, though the original was an instrumental done by Mongo Santamaria; just about anyone over the age of 50 should have at least a vague memory of this song, depending on what side of the pond you lived on. Hugh and the Copper Bottom Band did a great cover of it last year on tour, check YouTube for various versions)_

'_Very Nice,' Sergio Mendes and Brazil '65 (the snippet of lyrics Roz quotes come from this song)_

'_Perfect Day', Lou Reed_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome._**


	13. Chapter 13

**_(A short chapter just for fun. -B)_**

_November 13th_

_7:30 p.m._

Hawkeye put the dinner plate in the dishrack and glanced at the clock. The house was quiet, aside from the usual muted creaks and ticks as the old place settled in for the night. He'd do that himself in a few minutes, after he finished in the kitchen; he'd probably even be making similar noises himself, once he went to bed.

With a sigh he put the tea towel in its place on the oven door handle, and moved into the living room just as the phone rang. The sound was loud, unexpected. Hawkeye picked up the receiver, checked the caller ID. What he saw made him smile. He answered quickly.

"Hello Roz," he said, and didn't bother to hide the pleasure in his voice. "How are you, sweetheart?"

"Hey Dad," Roz said, and the happiness in her own voice warmed him. She really did think of him as a father too; their relationship had grown steadily since his entry into Greg's life. They'd moved from cautious liking to a deep and tender affection that afforded both of them a great deal of enjoyment. "How are you?"

"Just finished dinner," he said, and sat down in the easy chair next to the stand. "How about you? How's everything going? Everyone all right down there?"

"It's all good. We're doing fine. I just wanted to see how your travel plans are shaping up." The eagerness in her words made his smile widen to a grin.

"I thought I'd drive," he said, just to get her going.

"Then you thought wrong," she said instantly, and he couldn't help but laugh.

"Calm down, I'm joking. One of my former patients is gonna drop me off in Boston. You and your hubby can pick me up in Syracuse."

"Good." The flat, protective note in that one word made him laugh again. "When do you come down?"

"Whenever you want me," he said. "I just need to pick a date. It's up to you." He hesitated. "I—I don't want to be a pain, you know? Outstay my welcome."

"You should have thought of that before you decided to come down here, _Dad_," another voice said. Hawkeye snorted a laugh.

"Greg," he said in acknowledgment. "Nice of you to eavesdrop."

"It's my phone."

"True," Hawkeye agreed. "So, since you're here—when do you want me to show up, and when do you want me to leave? Might as well get it figured out now."

"Why the fuck should I care?" Greg said. His tone was harsh, but Hawkeye heard the anxiety beneath it. He would have to tread carefully.

"It's your home," he said. "You tell me how long to stay. I'll abide by your decision."

There was a brief silence. Then, "Work it out with the wife." And he was gone. Hawkeye sat back, his amusement vanished.

"You still there?" Roz said.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here." He blew out a breath. "Are you sure he's okay with this? He sounds—not okay, I guess. Maybe this is a mistake." It was a thought he'd wrestled with in the depths of night, when sleep deserted him and old memories came to haunt the darkness.

"If he didn't want you here, he'd say so," Roz said. She sounded sure of what she was saying. "It's his way of telling you it's all right with him for you to stay as long as you want."

"Really?" Some of the tension deep inside eased a bit. "You're not—you're not just saying that?"

"Nope. So when do you want to come down? Let me bring up the calendar." There were muted sounds of her moving around, and then suddenly music. "_Shit_—hang on—" He heard Greg say something, plainly some derogatory remark, because Roz said tartly "Buzz off, I didn't play it when you were home! Okay, I have it."

"What's the song?" Hawkeye asked, amused at the exchange.

"Oh, just—just something—"

"Don't get her started. She listens to crap music," Greg said, having obviously picked up the extra handset once more.

"I do not! Just because you don't like it doesn't mean it's crap!" Roz said, but it was plain she was trying not to laugh.

"Dare you to play it for him."

"Go away!" Roz snapped. Greg made a clucking sound. "_Stolto_! Knock it off!"

"You won't play it because you know it's C-R-A-P."

"Will you _stop_?" Roz hissed. Silence greeted her. "_Finally_. Okay, I have November dates. How about the twenty-fifth?"

"How about you play me that song?" Hawkeye said.

"Oh _god_, not you too!" Roz groaned. "I just—I heard it—oh hell, fine. I'll send it to you later, okay?"

"You'll be sooooooorry," Greg said in the background.

"_Testa de cazzo!_ Go _away!_" Roz growled.

"Doooooomed."

Hawkeye couldn't help but laugh. "If I didn't know better I'd say you two were newlywed twenty-somethings," he said eventually, wiping tears from his eyes.

"With him, more like ten-something and that's being generous," Roz said tartly. "So, the twenty-fifth—"

"Nope. Song first," Hawkeye said. There was a pause.

"If I ever had any doubts you were his real dad, you just killed the last of them." Roz sighed. "You and your son are both a gigantic pain in my backside, do you know that?"

"Just send the song," Hawkeye said, doing his best to sound reasonable.

"I'll send you something, all right. Fine. But only if you agree not to listen to it until after the call."

"Sure," Hawkeye said. He sensed she really was embarrassed. While he enjoyed teasing her, he knew she'd had enough. "You got it."

He heard the muted clacking of keys, then, "It's headed your way. Now can we PLEASE decide on dates?"

"Yes dear," Hawkeye said meekly, and Roz laughed.

"I'm surrounded by smartasses. Okay, let's see . . ."

They decided on the twenty-fifth for arrival, and January tenth for departure. "That gives you plenty of time to hang out," Roz said, and sounded pleased. "It'll be nice to have you here."

"Thanks," Hawkeye said, delighted by her enthusiasm. "I'm looking forward to it." He sat back. "That cute nurse who works for your husband, is she still around?"

"McMurphy? Yeah, she is," Roz said. "You'll get to see plenty of her."

"I certainly hope so."

"Definitely Greg's dad," Roz laughed. "So tell me how you are, what you're doing."

They talked for some time, an easy back-and-forth that eased the last of his reservations about this trip. While his son might feel some ambivalence, it was plain his wife didn't.

After the call ended, he brought up the email with the file attached, and let the music play. He vaguely remembered the song; the Sixties had gone by in a blur of work, alcohol and nightmares, brought to a head by the loss of his father. He'd just existed for some time after that, unable to accept that he was well and truly alone. It had taken some time for him to stitch together the rags of his courage, and get help.

Now he listened to the music and smiled. Roz had nothing to worry about, despite her husband's teasing. His daughter-in-law was for the most part a serious traveler, but when it came to music she had the heart of an eight-year-old. The song was pure pop, true enough—as light and meaningless as a grain of sugar. And yet it felt as though someone had offered him a moment of summer sunshine to stand in. He suspected Greg felt the same way about it under all his mockery. The music revealed Roz's warm and generous nature, carefully hidden away behind that quiet front. It was a gift of trust, and he had to reciprocate somehow.

It took him some time to figure out how to navigate the music channel, then attach the address to an email, but he managed it before he shut down the computer and went to bed, chuckling softly.

November 14th

4:45 a.m.

Roz stirred some sugar into her coffee and yawned. She glanced out over the back yard and shivered as the last of the brown, dead leaves stirred on the bare ground. Eventually she'd be out in that cold, on her way to a construction site where she was working on wiring a new house . . . With a sigh she shuffled over to her phone to check for new messages; the contractor liked to send her schedule changes at the last minute.

To her surprise there was an email from Hawkeye with an attachment. She opened it and listened. After a few moments she began to smile. She set her coffee on the counter and let the rhythm have its way with her, enchanted. She liked Duke Ellington, but she'd never heard this version of 'It Don't Mean A Thing'; it was delicious, light, sweet and spicy. She'd have to look up Ivie Anderson. And later on, when she was home for the day and before her students arrived, she'd listen to this to her heart's content, and send her father-in-law another song.

When Greg came in she was standing at the stove frying eggs and still dancing, keeping time with the spatula. He paused, then came in and glanced at the phone, one brow raised. Without comment he leaned in and kissed her cheek, took down a plate, and handed it to her. "I'm glad someone's having a good morning," he said, his voice still raspy with sleep, but Roz heard tender amusement under the snark. She smiled, turned the eggs and thought about her return email to Hawkeye.

_Roz's song: 'Lazy Day', Spanky and Our Gang (yes, it's a total earworm. Someone sent it my way so I'm inflicting it on my readers just because I can, LOL)_

_Hawkeye's song: 'It Don't Mean A Thing', Duke Ellington and Ivie Anderson (originally recorded in 1932, absolutely wonderful)_

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome.**_


End file.
